Reopening a Niche
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: Another bit of Christian's past comes out of the blue, while Princess Margareta begins the new trial of Rogan's amakarna cure and Roarke grants a young woman her fantasy of meeting Russia's last czar. Seventh in the "Niches" arc
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _There will be one final story in this arc, since there's a last open thread yet to close; but I'll also weave in a fantasy as well—no hints yet though, since even I'm not sure what kind of fantasy it'll be! Meanwhile, enjoy this story, and as always, positive and constructive comments are welcome, while flames will be taken out and summarily shot. On with the story..._

* * *

><p>§ § § - November 15, 2008<p>

It was going to be a busy weekend: the full group of participants in Rogan's new trial had arrived, and today was the day he was going to administer the doses. Plus, it being Saturday, Roarke and Leslie had a new pair of fantasies to grant. The first guest strolled down the dock looking hopeful and anticipatory; she was an almost homely woman, overweight and short enough that the extra pounds made her look fat. She wore glasses and had tried to put her hair up in a style that was all wrong for her face; her one redeeming feature seemed to be her smile, which was wide and heartfelt. "Miss Lindsey Randolph, from Strafford, New Hampshire," Roarke said. "She's a preschool teacher there, and in her own words, a great admirer of history. Which fits her fantasy, in fact, and I found it quite an interesting and unusual one, enough to grant it with little hesitation."

"So what does she want to do?" Leslie prodded him.

"While she enjoys all history to varying extents, she is most fascinated by Russia around the time of its revolution," Roarke said, "and most specifically in the doomed Romanov family: Czar Nicholas and his wife Alexandra, and their five children, who were all murdered by the Bolsheviks ninety years ago. She wants to know in particular their thoughts and feelings in their last days, what they did, what they felt when they knew they were going to die."

"Time travel," Leslie said.

"Exactly. It will be necessary to send her to 1918 Ekaterinburg, Russia," Roarke said. "But what she will see there may scar her for the rest of her days..."

Leslie wanted to protest, but she supposed there'd be that opportunity once they met up with Lindsey Randolph later at the main house. She contained herself and turned her attention to the three men now stepping out of the plane's hatch, laughing at one another with what she thought seemed to be stilted nervousness. "Okay, so who are these guys?"

"In the order you see them," Roarke told her, "Ivar Claesson from Birka, Lilla Jordsö; Ernst Wennergren, from Sundborg; and Pelle Fågelsang, from Klarhamn. They have not seen each other in more than twenty-five years; they were close friends throughout most of their school days, but once they completed their education they gradually drifted apart. A recent event brought them unexpectedly back together for an evening, and they found themselves reminiscing." He regarded the men as they stepped onto terra firma, each one adorned with a lei and holding a drink, looking around with interest and still chattering. Leslie could hear their nervous _jordiska_ from where she stood and managed to catch a couple of phrases she understood, before Roarke caught her attention again. "They might have gone their separate ways again without a second thought, but for one common factor—and that's what has brought them here."

She tried to think what that common factor might be, but it was hard to imagine; they didn't get a lot of visitors from Lilla Jordsö, though the number of vacationers they'd had from there had been on a steady upswing for the past seven or eight years. "And?"

"They would like to remedy a wrong they feel they have done, one that haunts all three of them equally," Roarke said. "The trouble is that it may not be possible without a great deal of openness and trust, and I'm not convinced they can develop that, in only one short weekend." Before Leslie could pursue this train of thought, Roarke's drink arrived—undoubtedly by design, she thought with a small sigh—and he raised his glass and his voice simultaneously. "My dear guests! I am Mr. Roarke, your host. Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

As he spoke, the three men stopped talking abruptly, stared at him, then raised their own drinks with overdone enthusiasm, mixed with what appeared to be relief. Lindsey Randolph hoisted her hollowed-out coconut in the air and beamed at him, and he smiled back, taking a sip of his own drink, without revealing whatever he might be thinking.

§ § §

Roarke had put off their appointments with their guests by an extra hour because he, Leslie, and a very insistent Christian were due at the B&B at eight-thirty. They arrived last, as it happened; the entire test group was seated in the little café Julie had opened some years before, since it was the only place big enough to hold them all. They took a seat at the table where Christian and Margareta were holding chairs for them, and Christian took Leslie's hand and squeezed it, hope in his hazel eyes.

"Glad you made it, uncle and Leslie," Rogan said with a grin. "I knew you wouldn't want to miss this. Well, everyone, Julie and her staff will be serving breakfast as we speak, but I think it's best if we go over the risks and the requirements one more time. Uncle, if you would, please..."

Roarke arose and went to join Rogan up front, laying out the same warnings and explanations he had done for the first trial. Since Christian and Leslie had heard them before, they tuned out, turning to each other. "Well, and what's in store for you today, my Rose?" he asked softly, mindful of his niece paying careful attention to Roarke.

"A lady from New Hampshire who's going back to the days of the last czar," Leslie said, "and three guys from Lilla Jordsö." At his surprised look, she shrugged. "Father was pretty vague about what they wanted. Something about righting an old wrong, but that could mean just about anything. Should be interesting to find out."

"And Czar Nicholas? The doomed czar who was assassinated with his entire family in 1918?" Christian asked, astonished. "Have you ever had a fantasy before that revolved around that particular time?"

"I don't remember anything like it in the whole time I've lived on this island," Leslie admitted, shaking her head, "and we've had some pretty wild fantasies. Father told me one summer when I was in high school that he tends to see just about everything from one end of the spectrum to the other, and that one of the best things about restricting his fantasy-granting to two a weekend is that he can choose which ones he grants. He said this one intrigued him so much that he decided almost immediately to do it."

Christian grinned. "I think I'm going to have to come back to the main house with you once this is over, my Rose. This is too interesting to miss." She grinned back, and they settled back into their seats, both refusing plates when one of Julie's waitresses made an offer. Margareta, though, had chosen a breakfast as close to _jordisk_-style as she could get, and was pouring herself a cup of coffee from the carafe the waitress had left behind. Christian took the cup that sat at his place and filled it, watching Margareta take a sip of hers and seeing to his surprise that her hands were shaking slightly.

"Are you nervous, Margareta?" Leslie asked with sympathy.

"A natural thing, don't you think?" the princess retorted, and she smiled. "I don't mean to snap, but I didn't think I'd be like this. I thought I would be too eager to rid myself of that spice to be afraid."

Christian smiled knowingly. "It's because you've just heard the full litany of what you risk in the course of this trial," he said. "Have you spoken with the Dutchwoman from the first trial, as Leslie suggested you do?"

"Yesterday, yes. She had just left the hospital and admitted she was relieved that it was all over. I asked if she's had any effects from not taking amakarna, and she told me she hasn't. She said that after a lifetime of taking a daily quantity of the spice, it was odd not to do it anymore, but very freeing at the same time." Margareta met her uncle's gaze with an eager light in her eyes. "She felt the mental tribulations were worth it, and that was enough to convince me that I'm doing the right thing."

Christian nodded, pouring cream into his coffee. "Well, as long as you're certain it's right for you, then I'll sit back and keep quiet. I still have my misgivings, but it seems to work in spite of the drawbacks, so I'm a little less leery of it now."

"I just wonder what sort of hallucinations I'll have," Margareta admitted, taking a bite of sausage and egg on an English muffin. "I hope I don't get paranoid and terrified as you say Briella did. I think I'd rather see ridiculous things like pink elephants and mushroom-shaped trees than go through that."

"You may see things much less humorous," Christian remarked, settling back in his chair with his coffee cup. "Pink elephants and mushroom-shaped trees are innocuous."

"Of course, if you see pink trees and mushroom-shaped elephants..." Leslie began, and Margareta and Christian both laughed. Grinning, she patted Margareta's hand. "Whatever happens, don't worry. Number one, there's always a medical professional around if you need one—and number two, you're likely to have company. Just take a breath and go with it."

Rogan reached their table just then and regarded them, setting a vial of dark-green liquid beside Margareta's plate. "You three are having too good a time over here."

"Isn't humor supposed to ease everything?" Leslie bantered, and he grinned at that. "I guess you're nervous too—I wouldn't believe it if you said you weren't."

"It's as bad as the first time around. It really doesn't help that you Enstad princesses insist on offering yourselves up for the sacrifice," Rogan said with a mock glare at Margareta, "for that only makes me even more nervous. I've lost one as it is; I don't need to lose another one, so ye'd best make certain ye're within easy reach of a doctor all the time."

His brogue was emerging again, and Christian and Leslie looked at each other while Margareta snorted. "The risk is no greater or less than it was with my sister," she said to Rogan in a stern tone. "Nothing would have happened to her if it hadn't been for that damned drug dealer trying to put a halt to it all. It's his fault, not yours, Mr. Callaghan—so I hope I don't have to spend the entire fifteen days of the waiting period convincing you as we had to convince Aunt Leslie."

Rogan rolled his eyes. "I don't take blame for what I didn't do. I just don't like it that the queen of an entire country lost her life in the course o' the whole botched operation." He sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "I can only hope there won't be any other fatheaded _ùmaidh_ droppin' out of a clear sky to ruin this one."

"Fatheaded what?" said Leslie.

Rogan grinned. "One o' me late mum's favorite disparagin' words—means dolt, or idiot, or dunce, or any o' several other similar things."

"Let's hope Hotaia Sese was the only one fatheaded enough to make such an attempt," Christian said with a half-grin. "I did suggest to Mr. Roarke that he double the constabulary force on this island, though."

"Undoubtedly a very wise move," agreed Rogan, joining in their quiet laughter. "Well, I'd best get up front again so I can let ye all know when to take yer dose."

When he did so, and Margareta threw it back with one noisy gulp, the expression on her face made Christian and Leslie break into laughter, which blended in with everyone else's as other similar expressions bloomed across the room. "He told you it would taste bad, you know," Leslie said, giggling.

"I still say it's worth it," Margareta insisted, grimacing, "but I think Mr. Callaghan lied when he said he tried to improve the taste." She grabbed her coffee and drained the cup as her aunt and uncle laughed harder.

She did, however, ask Rogan a last question. "For those who did have hallucinations, how long did it take before they began?"

"Our Dutch friend from the first trial reported that it was about two days for her," Rogan said. "Never did hear anything from the Swiss man." He focused on Christian and Leslie. "And what about Queen Gabriella?"

"She didn't mention hallucinating _per se,"_ Christian said slowly. "I'm not sure she was aware of what it was doing to her. I do know that the first sign I noticed of the paranoiac effect on her was the following morning at breakfast." He looked at Margareta. "So keep in mind that it seems to be variable, but do try to stay close by—not through danger from any-one but more because you may need medical help."

"I'd suggest staying with the triplets, but if something happens to me it could scare them, and I don't want that," Margareta said. She let out a sigh and shrugged. "Maybe I should just get out and enjoy the day today while I can, before the side effects set in."

"Just don't rent a moped," Christian said, only half kidding, and got a glare from Margareta and a snicker from Leslie for his effort. "You'll find something, Magga. If necessary, you can just stay upstairs in Mr. Roarke's TV room and read or watch videos; there are plenty of both."

"All right, then. Meantime I'll take the chance while I still can, and do a little sightseeing with some of the others," Margareta decided.

With that, Christian and Leslie returned to the main house with Roarke, and arrived a little more than five minutes before their first appointment was due. As they came in, Brianna Harding picked her way down the steps, her hands around her stomach, her face a study in misery. "Oh, boy, am I ever glad you're all back," she groaned. "I'm so sick to my stomach I feel like I'm gonna spend the rest of my life barfing."

"Oh, great," Leslie groaned. "You mean you finally caught that stomach bug that Noelle and Mrs. Knight and I had?"

"I guess so," Brianna said. "I'm really sorry, Miss Leslie. I felt it this morning, but it wasn't that bad and I was hoping I wouldn't have to miss out on a weekend of babysitting pay. I guess my gut had a different idea."

Christian smiled. "I'll take you home, Brianna," he said. "Leslie and Mr. Roarke are here, so don't worry. There'll be plenty of other weekends." He leaned over and kissed Leslie. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

His departure preceded their first appointment by no more than two minutes; the three men from Lilla Jordsö came in, all looking a little apprehensive. They immediately bowed to Leslie, murmuring, _"Ers Höghet,"_ in unison; she nodded a greeting at them and asked them in _jordiska_ if they needed anything.

_"Nej, men våra tackar,"_ said Ernst Wennergren, a bit shorter than his companions and noticeably heavier, with longish ash-blond hair whose topmost hanks were trying to stand straight up from his head. He cleared his throat and glanced at Roarke, then asked, _"Forstår han jordiska? Blir helt okej om den är inte tagen..."_

Leslie cleared her throat. "No," she said, deliberately using English, _"jordiska_ isn't one of Father's languages, I'm afraid. Why don't you sit down over here?" She gestured at the loveseats and chair around the tea table, and Roarke joined her on one of them as Wennergren took the chair and Claesson and Fågelsang occupied the second loveseat.

"So you have said," Roarke began, "that you wish to right a wrong." The men nodded, with uneasy glances at one another and particularly at Leslie. "May I ask what wrong you refer to, precisely? I am afraid you've given me far too little to go on before I can grant your collective fantasy."

More glances went around, and Leslie began to wonder if the threesome had commit-ted a murder or some such thing in their childhood; they seemed that guilty. "I suppose it's up to me," said Ivar Claesson finally, looking a little resigned. He was a handsome man just beginning to show the effects of middle age, with chin less firm and abdomen not as flat; his pale hair had clearly been receding for some time, but this didn't detract from his looks. "We knew each other from the time we began school together. There were four of us, you see. For a few years we were too young to notice superficialities. We got along well, made fun of the same things, did what young boys do..." He shrugged, glancing fleetingly at Leslie, whose bewilderment was beginning to show on her face. "But our friend was set apart from us in ways we didn't know how to overcome, and we simply grew apart."

"I think we tried to coax him into doing things he really didn't want to do," admitted Pelle Fågelsang, a friendly-faced man whose emotions seemed to reflect all too readily out of his blue eyes. He, too, had lost the better part of his sandy-blond hair. "It was probably especially true after we entered our teen years and grew aware of...of certain differences. We also became friends with someone that he didn't get along with, and I believe that may have caused him to...to separate himself from us further still."

"We began to wonder about it when we had to go to different schools," Ernst Wennergren said; his accent was a little thicker than those of his friends, but his English was good. "We never really spoke of it much, though. I think we knew we had alienated him, but we were too immature to understand or care much, until it was far too late. I can only imagine the effect on him. And in any case, the other friend we kept company with has long since disappeared. We don't know what became of him."

"So you're just looking to reconnect with an old friend, is that it?" Leslie asked.

The men looked at one another yet again, and she frowned, wondering. Fågelsang executed a self-conscious shrug. "Not only that, but to apologize." He let that hang there for a minute, peered at his companions as if waiting for something, and then exhaled when neither of them spoke. "And perhaps to see if he'll accept our friendship again."

"I see," said Roarke quietly, surveying the threesome as if he already knew what they weren't saying—which, Leslie figured, he probably did. "At the moment, I am afraid your...former friend is unavailable, but I will be in touch with him later today, and I can assure you that you will have your chance to make your apologies."

The threesome clearly had to be content with that, and thanked Roarke in subdued tones as they arose and left the study. Fågelsang and Wennergren mumbled to each other in uneasy _jordiska_ too low for Leslie to hear; Claesson just looked distant. She watched them depart before turning to Roarke. "That felt like a complete waste of time. What in the world were they talking about? I thought maybe they had done something so unspeakably bad to this friend of theirs that they were too ashamed to admit what it was."

Roarke regarded her for a moment before saying, "There is shame there, make no mistake, my dear Leslie. But it comes from nothing so dramatic as to have created headlines or been the subject of a fictionalized suspense film." He drew in a breath. "No, it's because of the identity of the friend in question."

Leslie eyed him, not very sure she was going to like the answer. "And who is he?"

"One of the royal family," Roarke replied gently. "Namely, Christian."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § - November 15, 2008

Leslie's jaw sagged. "Christian!" she breathed, and stared at the door as if she could see the three departed men through it. "They were _Christian's _friends in school?"

"At one time, yes," Roarke confirmed. "That's why they were all so uncomfortable around you. Did he never tell you about them?"

"No, he didn't," Leslie admitted, blinking and wilting against the back of the loveseat. "I don't really know much at all about his school days. If he talks about his childhood, it's only to remember something lousy his father or Arnulf did to him, mostly. He never says a word about school, and certainly never about any friends. I had the impression that all his classmates, all the way through, were so intimidated by his being a prince that he never had any friends at all. And then these guys..." She shook her head. "What'll we tell Christian?"

"When he comes back, we'll inform him," Roarke said. "For now—" The door opened, and in stepped Lindsey Randolph. "Ah, Ms. Randolph, come in, please!"

In contrast to Wennergren, Claesson and Fågelsang, Lindsey Randolph was bright, cheerful and eager. "Hi, Mr. Roarke...Mrs. Enstad. Wow, I feel so lucky. When I first wrote asking for this fantasy, my friends said you'd never grant it because so many gazillions of people ask for fantasies here. I gotta admit, it was fun to shock them with your acceptance letter." She grinned as Roarke chuckled and Leslie laughed, and took the chair Roarke indicated while Leslie joined them.

"Tell us about your fantasy, Ms. Randolph," Roarke invited.

"Well, I guess I mentioned that I've always loved history. When I was thirteen or fourteen, I read a book about the last czar of Russia and what happened to him and his family, and I was so fascinated that I was just hooked on the story from then on. The whole Anna Anderson thing—you know, the woman claiming to be Anastasia—that kind of got to me too. I know they finally proved she wasn't Anastasia, but that was a little disappointing to me. I was hoping at least one of them might have survived." She smiled, and Roarke and Leslie smiled back. "Then ten years ago, they found most of the bodies, including Anastasia's, and that seemed to be that. I've kept up with every piece of news on this. Last year when they finally came across the last of the remains and confirmed that the whole family had been killed, I started wondering what they'd been like, who they really were, and especially what they must've been thinking and feeling in their last days. I...I know they were all brutally executed. A book on the subject just came out and I read it cover to cover in one night. Now...well, I'd like to, uh..." She blushed for the first time. "I'd like to meet them, even though I know I can't change what happened to them. I want to see who the Romanovs really were, and what it was about them that made the Reds hate them so much that they would gun them all down in such a brutal, bloody massacre."

Roarke nodded. "I understand, Ms. Randolph." He settled back in his chair. "I must say, I found your initial letter most fascinating. We get surprisingly few fantasy requests that have anything to do with Russia, even in the matter of exploring ancestry there. You made a truly eloquent case for your wish to meet the czar and his family, and I was most impressed." With another smile, he sat up. "So without further ado, we will begin your fantasy. Come with me, please." He arose and led Lindsey and Leslie to the time-travel room, letting both women in ahead of him, then pausing as the door opened and Christian walked in. "One moment, please..."

Leslie overheard the footsteps and stuck her head out, then grinned. "Hi, my love."

"Hello, my Rose...have I missed anything?" Christian asked humorously.

Lindsey's head popped out too, and she gasped. "Oh wow, Prince Christian! It's great to get to meet you, Your Highness!"

Christian chuckled. "It looks as if you're about to embark on your fantasy—going back to meet a czar, I understand? I wish you luck and enjoyment."

Lindsey blushed, too overcome with amazement at meeting an authentic living prince to wonder how he knew what her fantasy was. "Th-thanks so much!"

Roarke smiled at the exchange and requested, "If you'd please have a seat, Christian, I have something to discuss with you. Leslie, Miss Randolph..." He gestured toward the interior of the time-travel room; Lindsey ducked back inside, Leslie smiled at Christian and gave him a little wave, and Roarke slipped in, closing the door behind him.

Within the room hung ornately framed black-and-white photographs: one wall was full of portraits of the Romanov family, another contained scenes shot during the Russian Revolution. There was a long white uniform-style dress on a seamstress' dress form in the middle of the room. "This is yours to wear for the weekend," Roarke said. "You will arrive in Ipatiev House as a servant to the Romanovs, on the morning of July 15, 1918; you'll answer to the name of Sasha for the duration. You need not worry about speaking Russian, for you'll be understood." He paused a moment, studying Lindsey with a serious look. "You do realize that it was a very dangerous period in Russian history. It was a time of war, of rebellion, of iron control—when the slightest breach of even the most insignificant-seeming rule brought down harsh punishments. Also, it must be noted that the Romanovs were in strict confinement, allowed outdoors only for one short period each day, and denied any contact with outsiders. Any hint of conspiracy in an escape plot would be certain death. To make a success of this fantasy, you must be extremely careful at all times."

"I read the book, Mr. Roarke. It tells all about the conditions the Romanovs were trapped in," Lindsey said. "I'll be really careful."

Roarke nodded. "Very well. Then all you need do is don this uniform, then turn out the light, wait five seconds, and turn it back on again. Good luck."

"I hope you have as good an experience as possible," said Leslie softly, and Lindsey thanked them both before they slipped out of the room. Roarke pulled the door shut and secured the electronic lock.

"You both look so serious," Christian observed as Leslie settled down beside him and Roarke took one of the chairs nearby. "Is your guest doomed, back there in Russia?"

"Not if she displays common sense," Roarke said, regarding his son-in-law. "But that isn't your concern, Christian. It is in fact the other fantasy that will be of great interest to you, and that's why I asked to speak with you."

"The other fantasy?...oh yes, Leslie mentioned that the guests in that one are from Lilla Jordsö," Christian remarked, relaxing and crossing one leg over the other. "In that case, do tell; you have my attention."

Roarke gathered his thoughts for a few seconds, then inquired, "What, if anything, have you told Leslie about your childhood, specifically your school days?"

"Not much," Christian admitted. "Why?"

"I must ask you this, Christian: do the names Pelle Fågelsang, Ernst Wennergren and Ivar Claesson mean anything at all to you?"

Christian's mouth fell open; he gaped at Roarke, then at Leslie, who nodded and said, "That's who's here. I had no idea they knew you. They talked about you but they didn't mention you by name, so I couldn't figure out why they seemed so skittish around me."

_"I ödets namn,"_ Christian breathed. After a few seconds he gave his head a sharp shake and focused on Roarke. "Where are they now?"

"In a bungalow awaiting their moment to speak with you," Roarke said, "and it's as Leslie said: they are quite nervous. I believe they are deeply uncertain of your reception of them; they seem to believe they did you a grievous wrong many years ago."

Christian made a noise, slowly relaxing against the back of the seat and pondering. "I wouldn't necessarily say that. They were...they were my school friends at a young age. At first they didn't seem to notice, or care, that I was royalty and they weren't; we joked and laughed and indulged in the sort of horseplay boys do with their friends. Although there were some things that set me apart right from the beginning. I couldn't invite them to visit me at home, and they seemed to feel they couldn't invite me to theirs. And as we grew older, of course, they grew increasingly aware of my station in life, and eventually we began to lose touch as they fell in with others and we had less in common. Then I went to a different school from the rest, and never saw them again." He started to say something, then let out a self-deprecating laugh. "I might have said they forgot all about me, but obviously, being a member of the royal family, I know that isn't true."

"You never forgot them either," Leslie said.

"No...I never did, although I grew accustomed to being a loner," Christian said. "After a while I dismissed it as one of the unfortunate casualties of being a prince. I certainly never thought they'd try to contact me again, for whatever reasons."

Roarke nodded. "Do you feel ready to meet them again?"

Christian shrugged. "I'll admit to wondering why it matters to them, especially after so many years. Ivar and I had a falling-out over something I can't even remember, and the friendship finally ended when we were about ten. With Pelle and Ernst it took longer; I think I was about fourteen, the summer before I began my _högskola_ career and had to attend a different school." He frowned, letting the silence stretch for a minute or so. "I don't know what they would want with me, but I'm not averse to seeing them. Business is slow and I let my staff know that I wouldn't be in this weekend, partly because of my niece, so I'm free."

"Very well," said Roarke, "then if you agree, I'll call them in now."

Christian shrugged again, and Roarke arose to place a quick call. Leslie studied her husband, wondering whether his calm, almost indifferent mien was real or just a façade. "Are you really okay with this, my love?" she asked.

He peered at her. "You saw them, didn't you? How did they seem to you?"

"Nervous, ill at ease, guilt-ridden," she said. "I thought maybe they'd done something so bad to this friend of theirs they wouldn't name, that they were too ashamed to admit it or even to talk about it. Like maybe murdered him somehow."

Christian laughed at that. "No murder here, unless it was that of the friendship we'd had at one time. I haven't seen any of them for thirty-six years, and I'm frankly amazed that they care enough to come all the way out here just to talk to me."

"Something has them going," Leslie commented. "If I didn't think it was something other than just feeling bad over the way they treated you back then, I'd say they were just scared to death of your being royalty."

Before he could say anything to that, Roarke returned. "They're on their way," he said. "You seem unusually calm about it; do you have any misgivings?"

"Should I?" Christian asked blankly.

Roarke studied him, then smiled faintly. "Perhaps." He inclined his head when Christian stared at him with an odd look. "I have some rounds to make. If you'll excuse me?" He departed without waiting for Christian to reply.

"Does he think it's my fault that my friends pulled away from me?" Christian asked.

Leslie bit her lip. "I don't know. I wouldn't say that, but I don't know what he has in mind. Maybe you should just wait till they get here and then kind of...play it by ear." She got to her feet as if to follow Roarke out.

"Now wait a minute, my Rose, where are you going? I thought you were going to stay here with me, so I could properly introduce you," Christian protested.

She stopped in surprise and stared at him, then made an acquiescing face and resumed her seat. "I just thought you'd rather confront them alone."

"That's rather lopsided, don't you think, three on the one side and only me on the other?" he inquired with a grin. "Besides, if we somehow find ourselves on sufficient speaking terms, you might be interested in some of our escapades during _primaskolan_. Ivar was a bit precocious, Pelle was generally quite easygoing, and Ernst seemed to suffer from something of an inferiority complex."

"Oh," Leslie murmured, but before he could elaborate, there came a knock on the door. She got up to answer it; Christian remained where he was, waiting, watching with a carefully blank face as she admitted the three men. Once they had filed past her, she turned to see what would happen, closing the door by rote.

Wennergren, Claesson and Fågelsang stopped short at the top of the steps into the study and stared at Christian; then Wennergren bowed, and the other two followed suit in a hurry, as though they had been forcibly reminded. Christian waited, staring at them without acknowledging the deference, taking in the sight of the school friends he hadn't seen in so long. They stared back, looking intimidated.

"Your Highness," ventured Wennergren at last, in hesitant _jordiska_. Leslie knew they would be speaking in this language throughout, and was glad she'd made Christian teach it to her, especially now if he felt she should be there with him.

Leslie thought she saw Christian's jaw clench for one second before he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "Stop that, will you?" He got to his feet and extended a hand to Wennergren, the nearest one. "It's good to see you."

"It's very good to see you as well, Your Highness," Ernst Wennergren replied, looking very relieved. "Every time I see you in the papers or on television, I'm amazed at how little you change. You could pass for at least ten years younger."

"No need for flattery," Christian said, shaking his head as he studied Ernst, Pelle and Ivar. "I'm afraid I wouldn't have recognized any of you on the street."

Pelle grinned. "I'm not surprised. Even my mother claims I've changed too much." They all laughed, a little self-consciously on the visitors' part, and took seats at Christian's urging. Pelle regarded the prince he had once called friend and added, "We saw the queen's funeral on TV, by the way. It would be very rude if we didn't pass on our condolences."

"Thank you," said Christian. "It's a difficult adjustment." He cleared his throat, then noticed Leslie hovering in the foyer. "I thought you were going to sit with me."

"If you want me to," Leslie agreed, coming down to resume her seat beside him.

"So that's your wife," Ivar Claesson said. "She looks different in person."

"Different, how?" Christian asked in amusement. "Fatter, thinner, taller, shorter?"

"Uglier?" Leslie tossed in with an arch look at her husband.

Christian gave her such a dirty look that Pelle, Ernst and Ivar all burst out laughing at once, as if in amazement that the prince seemed human after all. Leslie filed it away for the moment as she grinned at Christian, who shook his head in amused remonstration. "You know better than that, my Leslie Rose. Anyhow, I suppose you've met officially, but these three characters are my old school friends—Pelle Fågelsang, Ivar Claesson and Ernst Wennergren. And this, of course, is my wife, Leslie."

They finally shook hands with her across the tea table, and Leslie grinned at them. "So Christian says you guys did some funny things as kids. I'm really curious."

Pelle remarked, "Well, one of us put a rotting fishtail in the desk of a teacher we disliked immensely. I know it wasn't me or Ernst, but I can't remember whether it was Ivar or Chr...the prince who did it."

His self-correction brought the momentary relaxation to a halt, and Christian sighed. "For fate's sake, Pelle...what do you think I'll do to you if you fail to defer to my title? Do you have any idea how sick I sometimes get of it? Damn it, just call me Christian and be done with it."

Pelle blinked at his vehemence; Ernst looked a little intimidated, and Ivar seemed to think it was funny. _"Herregud,_" Pelle said, "I didn't know it bothered you that much. It's only that it's been so long, and you...well, you can't assume anything when it comes to...well, you know." He shrugged uncomfortably.

Ivar elbowed him. "If you're afraid to call him by his name, then I'll do it. So tell me, Christian, where did you get that fishtail?"

"From you," Christian shot back without missing a beat, startling Leslie into a laugh that triggered the men's like response. He grinned and patted her knee, sitting back and affecting a naturally relaxed posture that seemed, at last, to put the other men at ease. "I had all but forgotten that. Maybe it was because that teacher never did find out who put that thing in her desk. What was her name, anyway?"

They reminisced for a while as Leslie listened in, giggling at the memories they were sharing; somewhere along the way, the triplets appeared from upstairs, warily eyeing the strangers as they filed around the loveseat and tried to climb onto their parents' laps. "Who are those guys, Mommy?" Susanna whispered. Of course, they could all hear her; the visitors grinned at one another.

"Those are some old friends of Daddy's from when he was in school," Leslie told her. "He hasn't seen them in a long time, so they're remembering a lot of things. What are you three doing down here?"

"I don't feel good," Karina said, casting her father's friends another shy glance and huddling against Leslie. "I feel like Brianna did when Daddy took her home."

That made Christian and Leslie trade _oh, no_ looks while his friends grinned. "Then I guess you'd better lie down for a while," Leslie said.

"I want my own bed," Karina complained.

"Yeah, me too," Tobias said unexpectedly. "I don't feel good either."

Christian muttered something in _jordiska_ that made Ivar snicker loudly and Pelle and Ernst exchange surprised, laughing looks. Leslie sighed in tolerant resignation and pushed herself off the loveseat, setting Susanna on the floor. "Tell you what, my love, I'll take them home and Ingrid can look after them," she said. "They have the cat there to play with anyway, so that'll help keep Susanna occupied while we see if Karina and Tobias really do have that damned stomach bug. I'll try to be back in half an hour."

"Don't speed just because you're afraid you'll miss some juicy story," Christian said with amused warning, and she grinned. "Come here, you three, so I can give out some hugs." He unabashedly gathered each child into an embrace and a kiss atop the head, murmured comfortingly to Karina when she whimpered that her stomach hurt, and released them to Leslie, watching her herd them out the door.

"Good-looking kids," Ernst said; he too had been watching. "They look like you."

Christian thanked him and resettled himself. "What of you? Don't you have kids?"

"Two," Ernst said, nodding. "My daughter's in the breeding business alongside me and my son is in his third year of college."

"That's right, your father raised thoroughbreds," Christian recalled. "Ivar? Pelle?"

"I've been flying for SAS for the last twenty-three years," Pelle told him. "My routes are primarily confined to Scandinavia, but now and then I get a run down to Italy or Greece, and every month or so I do a weekend of flights to the UK and back. It's a decent living. I raised three kids with my wife, and the oldest one is expecting a baby."

"I'm a lawyer—a real shark, according to my ex-wife," said Ivar with a wry smirk. "I wouldn't have put it that way exactly, but there are times when I wonder if maybe she isn't right about me after all. We had a son together, but he's fifteen now and estranged, and I haven't seen him for a few years. Not for lack of trying, but he wants nothing to do with me and she refuses to force him. I've been seeing someone for a couple of years now."

Christian nodded, and they all fell silent for a minute that grew more uncomfortable the longer they sat. Then Christian queried, "So what exactly made you decide to contact me now? Is it only because we're all fifty and feeling our ages, or what?"

His friends exchanged startled, uneasy looks, and Pelle winced. "I forgot how direct you always were," he said, sounding as though he'd been caught at something. "You were never one to beat around the bush. You just said whatever you felt."

"Because he could," Ivar put in. "Only you could've gotten away with some of the things you said."

"Because I'm a prince?" Christian asked, staring at him. Ivar caught his look and cleared his throat, but the damage had been done, and Christian's tone cooled a bit. "I asked because I thought it was stupid to dissemble. I'm sure you three didn't come here just to waste your time dancing around the real reasons you instigated this meeting."

He watched his one-time friends look at one another; their uneasiness hung in the air like a bad smell. A memory began to scroll through Christian's head, and he tried to brush it away; but with its subject sitting right in front of him, it wouldn't leave him alone. He sighed and eyed Pelle. "It must have been you, the first time I realized the three of you were beginning to notice my title and pull away from me because of it." He took in Pelle's startled look. "We were having one of those walks they made us take during physical-education classes—I think we were perhaps eight or nine—and you said something about how I never visited your house, or some such. I had the idea then and there that you should come home with me for a visit that day, but you demurred."

Pelle's expression told Christian that he remembered it too. "Well...we were little kids, and we believed in your father's omnipotence, being king and all."

"My father, omnipotent? Half the time he couldn't even remember my name," scoffed Christian, rolling his eyes. Ivar was the only one who laughed; Pelle and Ernst traded an uncertain look. "Did you really think he'd throw you into a dungeon?"

Even Ernst looked incredulous at this. _"Herregud,_ Pelle, did you actually say that?"

"I told you, we were kids," Pelle said, finally beginning to get upset. "How was I supposed to know what kind of reaction I'd get? This upstart commoner just walking into the castle alongside the prince and claiming to be his friend..." Ernst jabbed him in the side, and Pelle realized what he had said and slammed his mouth shut.

"Well done, that," commented Ivar dryly.

Christian tried to calm himself down with a couple of deep breaths, but in the end the remembered hurt was too much. "That exact attitude is the biggest, perhaps the only, reason I had no friends, especially after we started _högskolan._ I can never get away from it. Even when I lost my title for a few years, it didn't matter. I've always been and will always be set apart because I'm royal. And when being royal doesn't lead to the actual rule of a country, it becomes only an appendage, something to keep you apart from everyone else, an excuse for them to ostracize you under a misplaced sense of awe or unworthiness." He caught himself just long enough to see their expressions: Ernst looked dismayed, Pelle guilty, Ivar merely skeptical. _"Ödet ta mej,_ why I'm telling you this, I don't know. Nothing will ever change." So saying, he got up and walked right out of the room, out the French shutters and down the path he knew led to town.

It took him a while before he settled down enough to suppose that leaving them all like that hadn't been the most mature thing on earth to do; but what did they expect him to do, sit there and recite a laundry list of grievances? Not that it mattered; he'd said enough, and that should give them an idea of what he'd been feeling all this time—if they even cared. Roarke knew everything, Christian thought with a scowl, so if he ever managed to run his father-in-law down, he was going to demand of him the true reason those three had shown up here. Right now, though, he needed a run...and here he was, dressed in his usual black slacks and white shirt, as if he were going to work. He'd have to drop in at the office after all and change into the running clothes he kept there. His walk grew brisk as it attained purpose, and he let his mind churn, knowing that run would be the only cure.


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § - November 15, 2008

Leslie returned to the main house to find it deserted; Roarke was still out, and Christian and all three of his school friends had disappeared. _Maybe they went out somewhere to have some drinks and catch up,_ she thought, although deep down she didn't believe that was really the case. She didn't know about those other guys, but there was too much between them from Christian's point of view for that kind of relaxed hanging out. She took a seat at the desk and reached for one of the three large rubber-banded stacks of envelopes sitting there awaiting sorting.

She had worked her way through only about a dozen of them when Margareta came in, looking to be at loose ends. "Hello, Aunt Leslie," she said when Leslie didn't look up.

"Oh." Leslie blinked, startled, then grinned. "Hi...I guess I was engrossed. You look like you need something to do. Didn't anything appeal?"

"This may make me peculiar, but I wasn't in the mood for the amusement park, and there were too many people at the pool. And you might be aware that we Enstads have shunned horses ever since my great-grandmother Julia was killed in a fall from one, so the stables weren't an option either. And of course, Uncle Christian forbade the mopeds. That left the casino, which I find pointless, or the beach." She paused, taking a seat in one of the leather chairs. "And the one I went to was deserted, except for Uncle Christian taking a run. I don't think he even saw me."

Leslie let the rest of the envelopes fall back onto the desk. "Uh-oh. If Christian's running, then his meeting with those friends of his didn't go very well."

"What meeting, with what friends?" Margareta asked.

Leslie briefly explained about the three _jordiska_ men who had turned out to be Christian's former school friends, and Margareta listened with astonishment. "I never knew he had any friends in school, not even in the first few years."

"So he never talked about it with you either, huh? Wow...they must've done something pretty nasty to him after all," Leslie mused. "No wonder they seemed so guilty."

"They probably just ostracized him for being a prince. It happened to all of us, to some degree or another. But with us—that is, my generation—it was easier. There was a whole group of us born within a year or two of one another, so we always had some company. I was with Briella and Rudolf, and then after Briella got her completion certificate and Rudolf was in his last year, Ceci started going to our school. Gerhard and Stina had each other too, and in Gerhard's last year Briella had started. So there were always at least two of us to keep each other company."

"I see," Leslie said. "And since Christian was so much younger than you guys' parents but so much older than you and your sisters and cousins, he was isolated."

"Exactly so," said Margareta. "So it would hurt him more. He wouldn't let it show to most people, but he's always been sensitive. He just didn't feel that he could trust anyone with his innermost emotions, I think, at least until he met you."

"But he never told me about these friends," Leslie protested, half to herself, her eyes focused inward. "If he never forgot them...I wonder why?"

"I wish I could tell you, but you'd have to get Uncle Christian to talk." Margareta let out a soft sigh, then leaned on the desk. "So if that's one of the fantasies...is it prying to ask what the other one is?"

"We have a history buff who's in 1918 Russia right now, getting her opportunity to meet the Romanov family," Leslie said. "I'm going to see if Father'll let me come with him when he checks up on that one. Maybe I'll get a glimpse of the duchesses and find out if they really looked the way they do in those ancient photos."

"The Romanovs..._herregud,"_ Margareta marveled. "It always seemed like a gruesome fairy tale to me, somehow. We were probably the only royal family in Europe that didn't have some tie to Queen Victoria, even by marriage." She grinned, and Leslie giggled.

"Are you sure about that?" Leslie teased, making Margareta laugh. "Well, anyway... let's go see if Christian's okay."

"What of you—are you all right? You told the family your baby is scheduled to arrive in May, so you should be three months along," Margareta noted as Leslie drove them to the beach in question. "Are you still getting sick in the morning?"

"Less so, but yes, occasionally. It'll be nice when that part goes away. We've batted around some name ideas, but nothing seems right, and it doesn't help that the triplets are arguing over whether it'll be a boy or a girl." Leslie rolled her eyes expressively, and once again Margareta laughed; after that they were quiet till Leslie had parked near the beach and her husband's niece was trailing her along the sand and through the palm-studded spit that split the beach in two.

There was a tiny figure at the far end, but even at that distance Leslie could see that Christian must have been there for some time already, since he was moving slowly. She turned to Margareta. "Do you feel like going up there to meet him?"

"You can if you like. I'm going wading," Margareta decided, and Leslie nodded and left her to wander in the shallows while she strolled along the beach, a few feet beyond the waterline, to meet Christian. It took her several minutes; when he noticed her there, he stopped entirely, his face quite surprised.

"How did you know I was here?" he asked.

"Margareta was looking for ways to alleviate her boredom, and in passing up this beach, she saw you running here." She regarded him sympathetically. "I take it something misfired with those old friends of yours."

"I wonder if they are," Christian muttered. His breathing was even, to her surprise; she supposed he must have slowed to a walk some time ago. "They don't seem to have changed much. Pelle seemed guilty, as if he really wanted to make up for whatever he thinks they did to me. But Ernst is his same intimidated self, always needing to belong, and Ivar is as cocky as he ever was. I just wish I could understand why they came all the way out here, as if they needed me to tell them it didn't matter or something."

Leslie thought about it. "Well, it had to have mattered to at least Pelle," she mused. "He probably had to twist the others' arms."

"Especially Ivar's," Christian said. "He was ten and I nearly so, when we had that last altercation that terminated our friendship. After that he sometimes taunted me, looking for a reaction, I suppose." He let a few beats elapse, watching his feet plod through the sand. "Leslie, do you remember my having ever mentioned some friends with whom I saw a number of racy movies in my early teens?"

She had to think back. "I don't know for sure, but the topic sounds sort of familiar. Were they the ones who did that?"

Christian nodded. "They and another boy named Kalle Stenström, who had a reputation for being a troublemaker. Ivar and he were quite good friends by that stage in our lives. Pelle had changed from the boy I knew in _primaskolan_ by then; in our younger days, he was less inclined to get into trouble just for its own sake. But I suppose hanging around with Ivar and Kalle changed him; he was more of a daredevil then, rather more like Ivar himself. Ernst hadn't changed so much, but he didn't have much backbone. He didn't want to be left out of the others' activities, so he let himself be dragged into whatever they felt like doing. I didn't have that problem." Again he let a moment pass, then shrugged. "Or perhaps I did, but it wasn't so important to me that I would compromise my principles to remedy it. I lost my taste for those films very early on, and it isn't as if I felt particularly welcome in their little gang in any case. I doubt they really missed me when I stopped going."

"Did you miss them?" Leslie asked gently.

Christian stopped walking, but didn't respond for a moment, his head hanging. It took him a good twenty seconds to look up at her. "I don't know," he admitted at last, his voice distant and a little weary. "Perhaps it was simply the concept I missed...having friends to be with...you see what I mean."

She nodded, watching him for a moment as he stared unseeingly into space; then she tucked her hand into his. "Maybe you'll feel better after you've had some lunch," she offered with a little smile. "Come on, my love, let's go."

They brought Margareta with them to Julie's little café where everyone had lunch and the test subjects took their second doses; then Christian, whose mood had quieted him, accompanied Roarke and Leslie back to the main house. Not till they were in the study, though, did Roarke make the inquiry. "Have you had a chance to speak with your former friends, Christian?"

"Yes," he said, without elaborating.

Roarke let a few beats pass, waiting; but when Christian merely sat there looking as though he were off on another planet, Roarke approached him as Leslie looked on from her chair in front of the desk. "Have you something you'd like to ask?"

Christian threw him a look that only made him smile. "Mr. Roarke, since you seem to know everything, particularly about your weekly guests—tell me, what's the real reason those three are here? Leslie thinks Pelle feels guilty about how he treated me, but none of them were forthcoming with any information, even when I asked directly."

Roarke sat on the loveseat across from him and regarded him. "You are accustomed to intimidating people, whether deliberately or not, because of your title," he said. "If you asked them directly and they didn't tell you, surely you understand it was due to that."

Christian made a scoffing noise and retorted, "Perhaps I'd believe that of Pelle and Ernst, but certainly not of Ivar. When I told them to use my name, only Ivar actually did so, in the end—and even then only a few times." He sat up and speared Roarke with a look, unreasonably annoyed that it didn't perturb his father-in-law in the slightest. "I have no doubt plenty of other people feel guilty about how they treated some former classmate, but never act on it, for various reasons. They could as easily come here for that purpose as Pelle, Ivar and Ernst did. I certainly wouldn't have thought _they_ would do such a thing, especially not Ivar. Not when I live on the other side of the world from my home country and there was nothing so notorious in our past as to have haunted them in all the years since. So I ask again: why are they really here?"

"I could tell you, Christian," Roarke said, "but it's best that the answer come from your friends. Further, I might ask you: have you ever truly forgiven, or forgotten, what passed between you all those years ago? You were hurt when they moved on, even though you never really let it show. I suspect you would have welcomed their company in your last few years of compulsory schooling." He took in Christian's stare. "If I may be so bold, my dear son-in-law: whether you realize it or not, you often use your status as a prince for your own protection, or perhaps, at times, for retaliation. I would suggest the latter in this case, however subconsciously you may be doing it. You hide that remembered hurt behind the regal façade that intimidates mere commoners, so that you feel you've gotten a bit of your own back, as the saying goes."

"Mr. Roarke..." Christian began, then let it drop, unsure of what he wanted to say.

Roarke seemed to relent. "It was Mr. Fågelsang who conceived of the idea and wrote me the initial letter. Perhaps the best way to convince you is to show it to you." He turned to his daughter. "Leslie?"

"It's in the usual place?" she asked, and Roarke nodded; she smiled at Christian, then got up and began to hunt through the tall wooden credenza near the computer station while Christian watched her. It didn't take her long to find it; she handed him the envelope and sat beside him while he lifted the flap and withdrew the letter. It surprised Christian for some reason to see that it had been written in English; he read it in silence, going over it twice before looking at Roarke again.

"My niece's death..." he began, shaking his head. "Not my father's nor my brother's, but Briella's. And even though they had been at some sort of business function where Ernst and his daughter were showing some of their horses, and had been reminiscing..." He seemed to have trouble stilling his head-shaking. "But the real catalyst was seeing that fate-be-damned press conference Leslie and I had to give to the _jordiska_ media!"

"Hard to believe," Leslie commented with sympathy.

"Extremely," Christian concurred. "I truly don't understand."

"Then," Roarke said, "my suggestion is that you ask them personally. Not all at one time, however—individually. Perhaps they'll feel less self-conscious about a one-on-one conversation, and will be inclined to reveal more." He punctuated this with a smiling nod, then turned to Leslie. "I believe it's time to check on Miss Randolph's fantasy, and you expressed a wish to accompany me."

"I did at that," she said with a grin. "Well, let's go."

Christian stood up as they did, and took Leslie's hand as Roarke crossed over to the time-travel-room door. "Leslie, wait one moment...I wish you'd give me your take on all this. What you think of those three and why, and whether you think they're sincere."

She considered for a second, glancing at Roarke, who was involved with the electronic lock. "Well, I think Ernst and Pelle are, but Ivar...I don't know, he strikes me as one of those types who...who hide a lot. I think you can make the first move with Pelle and Ernst, but if I were you, I'd wait and let Ivar stew and then come looking for you."

"If he really wants to," Christian muttered. "Perhaps I'll..." He let the sentence trail off, then sighed and smiled at her. "It might be easiest to speak to Pelle first. Enjoy your peek into that Russian fantasy, my Rose, and I'll see you later this afternoon."

"Good luck, my love," she said, and he kissed her before watching her join Roarke in the time-travel room. Then he sighed and left the main house, wondering whether he really wanted to face these representatives of such a distant past.

They found Lindsey Randolph standing at a window she couldn't see through, lost in thought, her face a mask of sadness. "Are you all right, Miss Randolph?" Roarke asked.

She started, then smiled sheepishly at them. "Hi, Mr. Roarke and Miss Leslie. Well, I have to admit, it hasn't been boring at all. What it's been is amazing. I mean...the duchesses, Maria and Olga and Tatiana and Anastasia. I guess they really didn't have any idea what was in store for them. They seem so...so blasted cheerful. I want like anything to grab the four of them and drag them back to the present day and save them. And Alexey, the Czarevich..." At that her eyes filled with tears.

"He was a hemophiliac, wasn't he?" Leslie asked.

Lindsey nodded. "He can't even walk on his own, he has to be carried everywhere, and he looks so fragile. I wince all the time because I'm afraid his father might drop him. I can't stand it. I wish I could tell them!"

"Would it be any different if they knew what awaits them?" Roarke asked her in a gentle tone. "Do you truly believe that forewarning them in any way would change what will inevitably happen to them? It would be cruel to do anything but leave them in their ignorance." For a moment his dark eyes grew distant. "Their father suspected enough."

Both Leslie and Lindsey eyed Roarke, who came back to the moment within seconds. "I do hope," he added, "that you aren't drawing any undue attention to yourself."

"No...there were some women in here to clean a little while ago. Washing the floors and so forth. I joined them." The wistful sadness crept back into Lindsey's eyes. "It gave me a chance to talk to Tatiana. You'd think she'd be unapproachable—she has such a cool, regal look in all those pictures. But she actually smiled and talked to me just a little. I was so...so blown away...this daughter of a czar—_royalty_, no less!—and there she was on her hands and knees like a...a common laborer, scrubbing away with the rest of us." Lindsey swiped a hand over her face to wipe away tears. "It'd be like Prince Christian digging ditches."

"He's aspired to that a few times," Leslie observed dryly. Roarke let out a soundless chuckle; Lindsey just looked confused, and Leslie smiled. "Are you really sure you're going to get through this? You're only halfway through the first day and not taking it too well."

"I told you, this is what I wanted," Lindsey said. "I just didn't know it'd be so..." She gulped thickly, then managed a smile. "Anastasia's funny. The head gorilla left the room while we were scrubbing the floor, and she made a face and stuck out her tongue after him on his way out, when he couldn't see her. It was all I could do not to burst out laughing when she looked back at me and winked. It was like we were sharing a secret."

"Be very leery of that 'head gorilla', Miss Randolph," Roarke warned quietly, as Leslie took the chance to glance around her. "He is Yakov Yurovsky, and he will be the Romanovs' executioner. Take great care that you do not attract the attention he gives them."

Lindsey swallowed again and nodded. "I'll be really careful, like I said, Mr. Roarke. I just can't help wishing I could _do_ something for these people. They might've had their faults, but they didn't deserve to be gunned down in cold blood—especially not that poor boy. He's not even fourteen, Mr. Roarke!"

"History does not distinguish between its victims due to age, I'm afraid," Roarke told her softly. "I must warn you again, take great care, and do not attempt heroic rescues of any sort. They'll only be futile."

Something in Lindsey's eyes told Leslie she was going to try anyway, and Leslie let out a small sigh; she'd seen it many times in many other guests. She leaned over to whisper, "Just watch your back—all the time." Lindsey nodded, letting her gaze drift back to the opaque window, and Roarke took Leslie's arm and pulled her back into the shadow behind them, the one Lindsey hadn't seen.

"I'd...I'd like to see them myself, Father," Leslie admitted when he turned a curious gaze on her. "Just to...to satisfy my curiosity."

"Perhaps you will, my child," Roarke said, surprising her. "Perhaps you will. But this isn't the time. There's work to be done, and I believe your husband will need all the support you can give him when he returns from his little errand."


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § - November 15, 2008

Christian really had intended to drop in on those friends of his, but it occurred to him halfway there that he had no idea which bungalow they were in, or even whether they were all in the same one. He'd already had one run that had, for perhaps the first time ever, failed to clear his mind; he wasn't dressed for swimming, had no interest in horseback riding, and couldn't even find any enthusiasm for watching silly rich tourists casually losing money at the casino. And if he went to the amusement park, he'd far rather have gone with Leslie and the children. In the end he found himself wandering back to his office, just to see what was happening there.

Of course, his employees accused him of taking a busman's holiday, to which he only laughed. "That's all fishtails. My wife is involved in a fantasy right now, and there's really nothing else for me to do. Darius, I'll take those phone messages, and Julianne, let me take a look at whatever e-mails you've received about website inquiries."

Darius dropped a number of pink slips of paper on his desk, while Julianne brought him a paper-clipped sheaf of pages. "Boy, you must be a real horror on vacations, Boss Prince," she remarked with a grin. "Nothing but work. Is Miss Leslie sick of computer talk yet? Do the triplets babble in their sleep about bytes and hypertext markup language and read-only memory?"

"Remind me again of when your maternity leave starts?" he retorted, making her laugh and retreat to her desk. He answered some e-mail messages while going through the website proposals, marking off five that intrigued him enough to take on and bringing up the original messages on his own machine to lay out terms and rates and ask preliminary questions. He returned a call that had come in from Jörgen Olofsson, his manager in Sundborg, and was preparing to contact Allegra Post, his London manager, for an update when someone walked into the shop.

"Can we help you?" Christian heard Darius inquire from his desk.

The voice that responded was familiar enough to freeze him. "Well, I thought that I might...oh, _herregud,_ I had no idea...he really _is_ here." Christian looked up and found himself staring at Ernst Wennergren, whose face was unusually florid. When Ernst saw that he had Christian's attention, he switched to _jordiska_. "You truly do come here and work. I thought you only supervised and collected the money..." The color in his face deepened. _"Ödet ta mej,_ I never should have said that...I'm sorry."

Christian let out a sigh and said, "Wait there a moment." Using English, he stood up and addressed his employees. "It appears I have something to distract me after all. Darius, go ahead and return these calls, if you would, please...and Julianne, I'm taking five of these website project ideas with me to work on myself. You can do as you like with the rest, but I'd suggest that if you do think they're all worth accepting, you get a little help. There are some applications in Darius' desk drawer; ask him for site designers and choose the four you think are best. I'll look at them later and set up interviews." Julianne nodded, and he folded the five printed messages a couple of times so they were small enough to slide into a pocket. "I may be back later to check on you, so forget your ideas about having a bash in my absence." This he aimed at Jonathan, with a raised brow and a half-grin that made Jonathan laugh and lift both hands in mock surrender. "Otherwise, business as usual."

His employees murmured farewells as he gestured Ernst out ahead of him and led the way across the square without a word. Ernst was no more sure of himself than ever, Christian found himself thinking; he knew without having to look that Ernst was dutifully keeping up with him. _Obeying his prince's unspoken royal command?_ Christian thought with an inward sigh, and continued on toward his running beach, which was usually sparsely populated and thus an ideal place to hash things out.

On the beach he paused to remove his shoes and socks, dropped them beside him and deftly rolled up the black slacks he wore most weekends. It took a minute before he realized that Ernst was staring at him, and he looked up at the other man to see an expression of pure amazement on his face. _"Är det nå't fel då?"_ Christian asked.

Ernst stuttered, "I...no, not wrong...not exactly...only...I never saw you..."

"You've never seen one of the royals casually dressed," Christian said through a sigh, taking a bit of pity on him and filling in the sentence.

"Uh..." Ernst floundered and cleared his throat. "Only in a few photos."

"Even a prince finds it a little peculiar to walk a beach in dress slacks and shoes," Christian pointed out dryly, trying to temper the words with a smile that clearly had no effect on poor Ernst at all. He gestured at his one-time friend. "Well, take off your shoes at least. I thought this might be a good place to chat. It's rare that I find many people here."

Ernst stepped out of his sneakers, looking perhaps a little more overweight than usual in the khaki shorts and t-shirt he wore. Christian had to repress a smile; the shirt was obviously brand-new, sporting as it did the message _OFFICIAL SOUVENIR OF FANTASY ISLAND._ He remembered badgering Leslie once about those silly t-shirts and her laughing admission that they were the brainchild and livelihood of one of her high-school classmates. He gestured at it. "I have one of those foolish things myself."

Ernst looked astonished. "You?"

"Me," Christian said with a resigned shrug. "Leslie gave it to me one Christmas as a gag gift. I probably should have worn the damned thing today." Picking up his shoes on Ernst's startled laugh, he started down the steps that led to the sand. "Come with me."

"What happened to this beach?" Ernst wondered, picking his way down in Christian's wake, making the prince wonder if Ernst ever went barefoot back home.

"This section gets more marine detritus than any other beach on the island, for some reason," said Christian. "Watch where you walk. I've seen a few shark teeth in the sand here. Past that spit with the trees, it gets much better."

When they got there, they saw a few vacationers sunning themselves and some kids playing in the surf; most of them were native islanders and were accompanied by a couple of leaping, barking golden retrievers. "We have company," Ernst remarked.

"None that's interested in us," Christian assured him, then realized something and turned around, making Ernst stop dead. _"Herregud,_ Wennergren, stop it, will you? There's no need for you to walk behind me. What the hell do you think you are, a Middle Eastern wife? I thought we were friends once. Walk beside me, for fate's sake."

He waited till Ernst had taken the few steps necessary to catch up, then started along the waterline, enjoying the wash of waves across his bare feet every several paces. Ernst kept up, though he still looked uncomfortable; the silence between the two stretched until Christian got impatient with it. "Well, you must have come looking for me," he said, hiding his true feelings. "I thought perhaps you had something to say."

Ernst let out a heavy sigh. "To be honest with you, I was sick of Ivar's company. Pelle didn't seem to mind, but I'd had enough of it. I really never thought Claesson would come here with us. Pelle had no trouble talking me into it, but Ivar..._herregud,_ I wanted to tell Pelle a hundred times to forget it and just come without him." Ernst's gaze wandered off into the distance somewhere, while Christian waited, surprised and cautiously hopeful at Ernst's sudden loquacity. "I can't believe I was friends with him as long as I was."

"How long _were_ you friends with him?" Christian wanted to know.

"Till we got our completion certificates." Ernst hesitated, then tossed the prince a skittish look. "Well, I thought we were friends at least..."

Christian snorted. "I wouldn't put much past Ivar. He's not very different from the way I remember him. Daredevil, cocky, too sure of himself, too certain that he was immune from things that would affect mere mortals. He had little discretion and even less tact."

A startled laugh boiled out of Ernst, and Christian grinned in response. "You really do remember Ivar well, don't you? So...who really put that fishtail in that teacher's desk?"

"I did it, but I wasn't lying—Ivar's the one who found it, though I don't know where. You and Pelle weren't willing to go that far, but you both thought it was just as funny as Ivar and I did. Now that I look back, I think it's a miracle we weren't caught." Christian thought it over as his and Ernst's chuckles waned. "Where in hell would Ivar have procured a fishtail, anyway? It's not as if he had access to a trawler in someplace like Sjöstrand or Klarhamn."

"He probably stole it out of the kitchen at his parents' house," Ernst suggested. "You remember his father was a high-priced lawyer in Sundborg—dealt with celebrity divorces. They had two cooks; I recall Ivar bragging about it. I think what surprised me, even back then, was the fact that you actually volunteered to put that fishtail in that teacher's desk. It stunned me. A prince, pulling a prank like that?"

"I was also a young boy, you know," Christian reminded him mildly.

Ernst seemed jolted, stumbling a little over one of his own feet before regarding the prince with discovery etched on his features. "And you wanted to fit in too."

"Too?" repeated Christian.

"Yeah...I guess I spent my whole school career looking to belong," Ernst admitted, his gaze straying again. "I'll tell you a secret, Christian. I didn't really want to be in on that fishtail prank, or all those movies we watched when we became teenagers, or anything else Ivar and that damned Kalle Stenström liked to pull. But I wasn't the most outgoing guy in the universe, and Pelle and Ivar and even Kalle seemed to accept me as long as I didn't rock the boat or try to come up with some original idea, as long as I did as they wanted. Familiarity, you know...you want to stick with what you know, and not risk your neck on something strange and new." Christian nodded. "So I stayed in the group all the way through school, but many times I hated myself for it, for my weakness and lack of backbone."

Christian felt a little guilty at hearing Ernst articulate some of his own thoughts. "Ah, well...I suppose most of us have that issue at some point in our lives."

Ernst threw him a skeptical look and demanded, "When in hell did _you_ ever have such a problem? Even I, the tagalong, could see enough to know that you always had that cool self-confidence. You couldn't be rattled, and I can remember Kalle and Ivar trying on a lot of occasions in the last couple of years of _primaskolan_. Maybe it left you on one side and the rest of us on the other, but you never hesitated to refuse to do something if you didn't want to. You didn't care what they would think of you if you swam against the current; you just sailed your own ship. And you didn't feel as if you had to defend the decisions you made. You were so damn calm and self-assured. _Herregud,_ Christian, I tried all through _högskolan_ to talk my father into sending me to that exclusive private school you attended, but he always told me he couldn't afford it." Ernst kicked at the sand in frustration. "But I imagine you never would've believed that, would you?"

Christian was staring at him in astonishment. "You...you really didn't enjoy those escapades of theirs? I..." He hesitated, met Ernst's gaze and decided there was no point in being delicate at this late date. "I knew you went along with their antics because you didn't want to be left out of things, but I never thought you realized why you were doing it."

Ernst let out a low growl. "Oh, I knew all right. I remember thinking it would have been far better to have attended school with you. I would have had a true friend, rather than those who merely allowed me to hang around because I agreed with everything they said."

Christian caught his breath and gaped at Ernst for so long that Ernst reddened again; the prince smiled apologetically and shook his head in wonder. "I never dreamed that was possible. I simply thought...that I was irredeemably set apart because of my station in life. It was certainly that way in _högskolan_, but I suppose you know all about that." His mind shifted tracks before Ernst could speak. "What of...well, I'm sure Kalle and Ivar were predictably cocksure all through _högskolan_, but what about Pelle?"

"I don't really know about Pelle," Ernst admitted. "You reach an age where you don't talk to one another so much. Once or twice I almost found the courage to ask Pelle if he really cared about Ivar's and Kalle's friendship that much, but I never managed to actually do it. In any case, for a while he was just as obnoxious as they were."

"Yes, I remember that," Christian said, and they grinned wryly at each other. "It made me think that he didn't have much in the way of a backbone either, if he felt he had to be like Kalle and Ivar before they'd accept him."

"I think that's what Pelle's really feeling so guilty about," Ernst said slowly, as they began walking again. "That he tried to become a clone of Ivar and Kalle, and as a result he alienated you as a friend. And by the way, Christian, I _don't_ know what you went through in _högskolan_. You were the sort who shouldn't have had trouble making friends, and I imagined you surrounded by girls as well."

"Remind me to tell you about those years sometime. For now, let me just say that perhaps if I really _had_ had girls surrounding me, my father might have left well enough alone. Of course, on the other hand, I might never have met Leslie either; so perhaps in the end it was all worth the price I had to pay." He studied Ernst curiously. "You didn't speak of your children's mother."

"First and only wife," Ernst said with a smile, then kidded, "at least so far." Both he and Christian laughed. "Her name's Tanja, and we'll celebrate our thirtieth wedding anniversary next year. I know, I married young, but I was fortunate enough to find her in my college years. I attended Premier University, and though I know that's also where Ivar went, we had no classes together since we were studying entirely different courses. Being on my own made things different, and I had to fend for myself, think for myself, everything. It changed me." He shrugged. "Of course, I felt like a fool when Ivar and Pelle showed up at the venue where Aina and I were showing some of our horses. Frankly, I don't even know what the hell they were doing there."

"Was it a large event? Perhaps they appeared because they recognized your name among those who were showing. Though I admit, the equine world in Lilla Jordsö isn't very large, and I don't recall either Pelle or Ivar showing much interest in horses."

"You either," Ernst remarked. "Why is that?"

"No Enstad has ridden a horse since my grandmother was killed in a fall from one, a few months before I was born," Christian said. "It may be just as well. In a country as small as ours, even the royal family has to pick and choose its hobbies."

"Apparently, without horses, you picked and chose quite a variety of them," Ernst commented with an easy laugh that warmed Christian. "Prince Carl Johan and Prince Rudolf in horticulture, Princess Anna-Kristina with her cats, Prince Roald with his martial arts...and you with your computers! How did you get into that, anyway?"

The conversation bloomed and flowed wonderfully as Christian and Ernst turned at the end of the beach and wandered back the other way; by the time they reached the stand of palms, they had exchanged e-mail addresses and agreed to keep in touch from then on. "It's good to call you friend again, Christian," Ernst said and smiled. "Listen, the next time you and your family are back in Lilla Jordsö, please, come and visit. We have plenty of room and you'll be more than welcome."

"Your father's horse ranch northeast of Sundborg, right?" Christian asked, and Ernst nodded. "Ach...do you realize I never saw it?"

Ernst made a noise of realization. "That's right...you mentioned to Pelle that we never visited you at the castle nor invited you to visit our homes. Then we'll give you and Princess Leslie and your children the full tour when you visit."

Christian smiled and said, "I'd like that, and I'm sure Leslie will too." He drew in a breath, then added, "You might like to see our home here as well."

The reward he got for that was Ernst's grin. "I'd enjoy that. I presume you don't live in a miniature castle?" Christian scoffed in disgust and they both laughed.

The day's final serum dose at Julie's café saw Margareta eyeing the vial with distaste as she picked at a slab of yellowtail with her fork. "I could barely choke down that second dose," she complained. "I'm afraid my stomach will reject this last one."

"With force, perhaps?" Christian said and grinned a wry grin at her. "Margareta Hjördis Benita, I'm truly amazed at you. The ever-fearless one who marches right in because she scorns trepidation in others...afraid? And of the taste of a serum that could spell the end of a lifelong dependence, at that?"

She glared at him with such venom that both he and Leslie burst out laughing. "You could always ask Rogan if you can mix it with your coffee," Leslie offered, giggling.

Margareta's gaze shifted to her. "What, and spoil perfectly good coffee?" Again they laughed; this time the princess joined in. "I realize it sounds silly, but now that I think about it, it isn't really just the taste. That is...it _is_ the taste, but that's the least of what worries me. I know, I know." She showed her palms to a still-grinning Christian. "We were told over and over again, warned of the risks, the drawbacks, the side effects...and I know also, I jumped right in and insisted on doing it. I'll see it through. But I never signed a contract that stipulates I had to pretend to like the idea of hallucinating, or being poisoned, or tasting it!"

"You might, however, be a little less vocal about your dislike," Christian said, his eyes alight with amusement. "Unless you're simply attempting some comic relief."

"It might have helped if you and Aunt Leslie were eating with me," Margareta said, glancing at their empty place settings. "Why didn't you?"

"To keep Mariki from giving us grief," Leslie said, rolling her eyes. "If we eat anywhere other than at the main house, without good reason, she gets all offended and wants to know why we're shunning her cooking. She wouldn't consider this a good reason. And anyway, Father will be there, and we usually use the time to catch each other up on anything that's happened during the weekend that one of us wasn't around for. You can join us if you want. Mariki's likely to push dessert on you. If you take anything, even a little fruit, it'll shut her up and you won't have to endure her carrying on."

"Eat your fish, Magga," Christian said, gesturing at her plate. "Leslie and I are hungry, and we'd like to repair to the main house for our own meal. At this rate you'll be the last to finish, and you know Rogan likes his experiment as coordinated as possible."

Margareta stared at him. "What do you mean?"

"Look," he said, and she twisted in her seat just in time to see Rogan sweeping the room with his gaze. The others in the group were twisting caps off vials in preparation for downing their last doses. Margareta groaned, picked up her own vial and unscrewed the cap, then held her breath as she drained it and forced herself to gulp down the contents. Gagging, she reached for the coffee cup that Christian had helpfully refilled and drank as if it were water and she hadn't had any for a week.

"All right back there?" Rogan called from the other side of the room.

"Nothing she can't handle," Christian said with a grin, as Margareta slowly set down the cup and began to breathe deeply. "I might suggest you experiment with the taste of that serum, though, if you expect it to be any sort of success." This comment got him laughter and even some scattered applause from everyone else in the room, and Rogan chuckled as well, leaning against the wall.

When Julie came out and shooed them all out of the café to make room for the evening customers, Christian, Leslie and Margareta left with the first of the departees and made their way to the main house, where they joined Roarke at the table. "I presume you've taken the final dose of Rogan's serum," Roarke said quizzically to the princess.

Margareta's features soured at the mere mention. _"Herregud,_ Mr. Roarke, don't stir up horrid memories," she muttered, making Christian and Leslie break into laughter again and explain what she meant. When Mariki came out with her cart, Margareta asked her if she had something rich and sweet, surprising the cook.

"Cheesecake," Leslie suggested. "That'll do it."

"Then that's what I want," Margareta announced. "As thick and rich as it gets."

Mariki stared at her, then shrugged amiably. "Why not. Cheesecake it is, Your High-ness, and I'll be out with it as soon as I've got these dishes on the table. Swordfish tonight, everyone—except you, Miss Leslie, not with your condition. You're getting salmon."

"I hate you when you do that," Leslie sniped, and again there was laughter. As Mariki departed, she grinned ruefully at Margareta. "I love swordfish, and she knows it. Problem is, pregnant women are advised not to eat it, and Mariki treats that as if it were island law. I'll just have to wait till our new arrival gets here."

"Aren't you planning to nurse, as you did the triplets?" Christian asked.

"Of course, but Dr. Hannaford reminded me that sometimes a mother can nurse one child but not another. So we'll see what happens after I give birth and I find out if the little one takes to it. If not, I'm going to pig out on swordfish." She smirked and Christian laughed along with Roarke.

Toward the end of the meal Leslie agreed to drive Margareta to hers and Christian's home for the night; she told Christian she would check in on the triplets while she was there and then come back. That left Christian at loose ends; at Roarke's invitation, he tinkered with the computer in the study, decided it needed a good scan and defrag, and set about handling those tasks while Roarke busied himself with accounting.

Then Christian groaned. "Ach. Would you excuse me, Mr. Roarke? I wanted to update your version of Windows—it just occurred to me, and this would be the perfect moment, but as fate would have it, I left the disk at my office. I'll return quickly."

"You need not rush, Christian," Roarke said. "You have all evening."

"It won't take long," he said with a smile and departed. Enstad Computer Services was closed for the day, but he let himself in with the master key and began rummaging in his desk for the installation disk he wanted, using the green-shaded desk lamp Leslie had presented to him when he'd first opened this storefront.

He was so startled by a knock on the window that he nearly slammed a drawer on his finger and caught himself just in time. The town square was lit up for the night, but that made it no easier to see who was peering through the glass with his hands cupped around his face. Impatient, Christian shoved the chair back and went over to flip on the ceiling lights; they revealed the startled, sheepish visage of Pelle Fågelsang.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § - November 15, 2008

He muttered a curse in his own tongue and opened the door, continuing to use his native language. _"Hallå då,_ Pelle, are you trying to give me a heart attack or something?"

"No, no," Pelle said hastily, eyes wide. "I was just...passing by, and I noticed someone in here. It looked like you, and I came to see, and it _was_ you, so I knocked..." His voice trailed off as Christian stared at him, and he shrugged. "Well, I really just thought it would be good to talk, if you aren't busy. Without Ernst and Ivar around, that is."

Christian remembered, just then, Roarke's advice not to rush and supposed, with amused resignation, that his father-in-law had known this would happen. But he didn't mind; he had questions. "I can look for what I need while we're talking. Come in, quickly—I'm not open for business and I don't want anyone getting the wrong impression."

His teasing grin was lost on Pelle, who edged into the office and peered around while Christian closed and locked the door. "Nice place."

"Yes, it's served very well," Christian agreed. "Grab a chair and pull it over to my desk here. I know that damn disk is in there somewhere." He rounded the work arm where there were three towers awaiting pickup, resumed his seat and pulled open another drawer.

His busy mien neatly hid his full awareness of every move Pelle made, as the latter man dragged Darius' chair over to the front of Christian's desk and took a hesitant seat. Christian waited him out, walking his fingers through file folders in search of his quarry, glad now for the excuse not to have to stare at Pelle's face while the other man tried to figure out what to say. Unfortunately, he came across the disk he wanted before Pelle seemed ready to speak, and he had to close the drawer, lay the disk atop his keyboard and await Pelle's leisure.

Impatience crept over him again and he had to take care not to let it show. "I thought you wanted to talk," he said in as neutral a tone as he could conjure up.

Pelle nodded. "I do, Your Highness. I just don't know where I should start."

Christian leaned back in the chair. "The beginning might work," he suggested, keeping his tone of voice light.

Pelle reddened, and Christian watched as his eyes scanned everything on the desktop in minute scrutiny. As Pelle procrastinated, Christian's mind began to wander, and he found himself remembering Roarke's words from earlier, about how he used his position as a prince to intimidate—whether he meant to or not. _Am I doing that now?_ he wondered, going over the encounter thus far. _I'm trying to put him at ease, but I wish he'd just spill whatever he wants to say so I can get those answers I want. _ He didn't quite dare to hope he'd regain a friend; it seemed gift enough that he and Ernst had renewed their friendship.

"Is that your wedding portrait?" Pelle asked, startling Christian from his musings. He had leaned forward and was examining what he could see of the photograph in the silver frame; Christian picked it up and offered it to Pelle, who took it as if it were made of the most fragile spun glass and studied it with intense scrutiny. The silence stretched; he eventually handed the frame back, but couldn't meet Christian's gaze. Christian tried to contain his growing impatience; but the longer Pelle sat there, the worse it got.

Suddenly Pelle cursed. "I had everything I wanted to say to you all set up in my head," he complained, "and now that I'm here, I've forgotten every word. And I can tell you'd rather be somewhere else." Christian frowned slightly; Pelle blundered on, "What I did to you...it was just so damn stupid and selfish and unthinking."

Christian stared blankly at him. "What did you do to me?"

_"Herregud! _ Don't you remember?" Pelle was now staring at the ceiling, his face florid, his fists clenched. "Fell in with Stenström because Ivar had done it, and I knew I'd need friends because you were going to the same fancy school your brothers and sister went to, and there was no way I could ever afford to go. I goaded you and smirked and made fun and talked behind your back, just as much as Stenström and Claesson did. It used to gall me that you never reacted. You and that contained aura about you. It infuriated me, and I just kept doing it because I wanted some kind of reaction. Something that told me it mattered to you that we'd lose touch."

Christian murmured an oath or two of his own, astonishment making him a trace lightheaded. "I never heard a word of it," he said without thinking.

_"Hestebröss,"_ Pelle barked out in disbelief. "That can't be true."

Christian grinned at the swearword. "It's fortunate Leslie isn't here, or I'd have to tell her what that means," he wisecracked. Pelle just stared at the back wall, and without warning the last of the prince's patience evaporated. "Damn it, Pelle, what's wrong with you? If you care that much, why won't you even look at me? How do I know whether you're telling me the truth?"

That earned him Pelle's full shocked attention, and Christian nodded sharply once in satisfaction, completely unaware that the inner prince had emerged again. "I can't figure out why you think you have to feel so guilty. We were teenagers, and you know how teenagers are: self-centered and unable to think much beyond their own sphere, their own worries and fears and hopes. I knew as well as you did that I'd soon be attending a different school from you, and I wasn't exactly delighted about it. But I have to tell you, you and Stenström and Claesson did manage to partially ruin that final summer for me. All those damn sexy movies you wanted to see. All of you had a fixation on them, and I couldn't for the life of me under-stand what made you think I wanted to spend all my time looking at them."

"You were _bored?"_ Pelle sputtered. _"That's_ why you stopped coming with us?"

Christian's indignation withered and he leaned forward, squinting at the other man. "What are you talking about? Why did you think I stopped?"

Pelle, staring at him, fell back in his chair and began to slump, acute embarrassment making his face crimson. _"Ach, herregud, ödet ta mej," _he groaned. "Of all the stupid things. If you didn't hate me before, you will after I tell you." He sucked in a long breath and let it out in a gust of obvious self-deprecation. "As I said a moment ago, I knew you were going to another school. I thought, well, there goes the one friend I thought I'd have all the way through till completion. Naturally, it was the early 70s, and the internet and e-mail and easy contact...all that was a distant-future dream. Royalty might have been losing its high-and-mightiness and untouchable superiority even then, but not to the extent it has nowadays, so it's not as if I could have asked for your phone number. I knew Ivar and Ernst and I would still be in the same school, and that was all right...but not too long after you and Ivar quit talking to each other, he took up with Kalle Stenström. You know Kalle always had a reputation as a troublemaker. I guess he got started early in life; I never knew a time when he wasn't regarded that way.

"Anyway, the two of them seemed to really complement each other. You know how cocky and daredevilish Ivar always was. Kalle actually had Ivar beat by kilometers. He was what my mother was always calling a bad influence. I could see Ivar going Kalle's way, and I figured eventually he and I would fall out of touch because I didn't enjoy doing all the dumb things they liked to get into. But then Ernst...damn Ernst anyway, for his complete lack of self-confidence and his desperate need to belong. Ernst must have panicked, fearing he'd lose all his friends, so he let Kalle and Ivar bully him into doing anything they wanted, just so they'd accept him and he'd have what passed for friends. And there he was, letting him use them so they wouldn't reject him.

"But I knew that would leave me out in the cold, and hypocrite that I was, I ended up doing what Ernst did, to a lesser extent. I just did something different. They'd try to get a rise out of you during those last two years of _primaskolan_, and you never said anything at all. You never let them get to you. It was like you didn't care. It infuriated me; you never talked to us about that fancy school you'd have to go to, and I figured, well, he's looking forward to it, he obviously thinks we're all immature idiots and that he'll be in better company in his new school." Pelle banged a fist on the chair arm, squeezing his eyes shut, while Christian gawked at him. "I was so damn angry with you, I decided to see if maybe I could get a reaction from you when they couldn't. So I'd badmouth you to them, mostly behind your back. Sometimes I said something accidentally when you were within earshot. And then I'd wait for a reaction, except there never was one. It made me even angrier, and I just kept doing it...more and more often when I knew you could hear it.

"And still nothing." Pelle sat up and stared at Christian in disbelief. "And now you act as if you have no idea what was happening. You can't be serious. I said some heinous things about you, just to get laughs out of Stenström and Claesson, but mostly to provoke you into some kind of reaction. And you're saying the reason you never reacted is that you never even heard anything I said?"

Christian slowly shook his head, his mouth open, as disbelieving as Pelle, if for a different reason. "I...no...what in hell did you say?"

"Most of it was stupid juvenile stuff, the kinds of things Kalle and Ivar still laughed at because the maturation stage hadn't hit them yet. But when you started opting out of seeing those movies with us, I began making remarks about how you must be gay or something and that's why you wouldn't watch—" Pelle stopped short when Christian rocked violently back in his chair. "What? What did I say? What's wrong?"

"You too?" Christian managed, too shocked to censor himself. "You and my father! You said that to them?"

Pelle thought back a moment, then turned pale. "You mean your...King Arnulf thought you were gay?"

Christian nodded. "That's why I was married at age nineteen. He had stupid ideas about 'curing' a condition that didn't even exist, and thought shackling me to a beautiful female would do it."

Pelle breathed out a curse, eyes huge. _"I ödets namn. _ I just...I wanted to hurt you, but I had no idea..." He scrubbed both hands over his face, lowering his head. "I can't begin to tell you...I've regretted my own stupidity for years. All I can remember thinking when I saw your wedding to Johanna on TV was that somehow, you always got the most gorgeous women...being a prince and all that, and the crush of every damn female I knew. I was in flight school then, and working at the airport repairing plane engines during the summer, and I still remember the day after your wedding. Every woman at the airport, even the ones who were old enough to be your grandmother, was half in tears because Lilla Jordsö's cherished prince had been married. I just thought how much it figured that a guy with your looks would get a girl with _her_ looks, and I was..." He shrugged. "I don't know exactly how I felt. But I think maybe that's when I first started feeling guilty." He stared into space with lingering shock in his eyes. "And now this. I don't think you could ever...I couldn't blame you if you never forgave me for what I did to you, even if you didn't know."

Christian wanted to unload on him, but he felt hampered, and he knew exactly why. "Damn it, Fågelsang, look at me. Look me in the eye for once, can't you? Even if you do feel guilty about this, what do you think it tells me when you can't look at me or address me by anything but 'Your Highness'? You used to use my name—why can't you do it now? You haven't said it once since you arrived here! My name is Christian—call me that!"

Pelle finally did meet Christian's gaze, though he seemed impelled by royal order, and Christian cursed in frustration. "Nothing changes. Exactly as I said. Nothing changes." He searched Pelle's face for a moment, then shook his head. "Pelle, damn it—I don't mean to intimidate you. I've been told I do it unconsciously, which is almost worse. I am what I am, and there's nothing I can do about it. But I'm sick of the way it isolates me. Here's the truth: you and Ernst and Ivar were the only friends I ever really had in school. It bothered me a bit when Ivar and I fell out, but I thought, at least I still have Ernst and Pelle. But we all began to change in those last few years of _primaskolan_, when we became teenagers and we were starting to change in ways we probably didn't understand. From my point of view, Kalle and Ivar were fools, you were growing to be more and more like them—which disappointed me—and Ernst wasn't capable of standing his own ground and gave in to everything. It was as if we no longer had anything in common. No, I wasn't looking forward to going to a new school where I knew no one, but I wasn't even sure I knew _you_ any longer. And in spite of what you believed back then, it bothered me. I simply didn't believe I had the freedom to let it show, or there would have been relentless taunting."

Pelle was shaking his head. "But that way you had about you...I never saw anyone so self-possessed. What used to get to me was that I didn't feel I knew you well enough to ask about it, how you did it and where you got the ability to just shrug off every stupid thing anyone ever said about you. You were totally opposite Ernst—you had backbone all right, enough that you not only sailed your own ship but did it without caring what others would think of you for it. It must be a royal thing...poise and grace and containment, always under a professional smile."

"Because that's what's required of a royal. We're on view all the time. Just because I never showed it doesn't mean I never felt it. I learned to put away all the petty hurts and disappointments and letdowns. I had to, or they would have overwhelmed me." Christian shrugged. "I think I got that strength from dealing with my father, who was always finding fault with me, trying to knock me back into line, trying to exercise the same iron discipline on me that he did with the castle staff and the members of parliament. Compared to him, the rest was mere shrimp...but that didn't mean it didn't matter to me."

Pelle nodded faintly, looking fascinated. "I...I have to admit, for years I've wanted to ask you questions like that. The same things the rest of us used to complain about—strict parents and plans for the future and why girls were so peculiar—I wondered what you thought of it all, what you went through and how you dealt with it. And once we lost touch, I knew I had made some major mistakes, but I was in flight school before I began to realize it. And it was made very clear to me when it became public about the true state of your marriage to Johanna. It was said that you two disliked each other from the very start."

Christian let out a bark of a laugh. "Believe me, 'dislike' doesn't even begin to describe it. We loathed each other. But that's not a story we should be telling here, at this hour." He checked his watch and laughed again, with more humor this time. "We've been sitting in here for most of ninety minutes, and I'm sure my wife is wondering where I am."

"Look...Christian..." Pelle's voice was hesitant, but finally hearing his name made Christian focus his full hopeful attention on him. "All those words boil down to one thing. I hope you can forgive me for my abominable treatment of you, even if you weren't aware of it at the time—which I still find impossible to believe. I hope we have a chance to talk more, but right now I just want to know..."

Christian smiled. "Pelle, to be honest, I really never did register whatever you may have said to Ivar and Kalle. I don't quite know why, but I don't think the reasons are important. It's enough for me that you came looking to make amends. I appreciate it, truly, and I'm glad you did it. Thank you." He extended a hand across the desk, and Pelle's face split into a grin as he took it and they shook.


	6. Chapter 6

§ § § - November 16, 2008

"So it seems I have two of my old friends back," Christian concluded at breakfast the following morning. "Ernst, certainly. I think Pelle and I still have more to talk about; there are things that we didn't have time to go over last evening. But it's a good start."

Leslie grinned. "That's wonderful, my love...I'm sorry I wasn't awake last night when you got back, but I just couldn't keep my eyes open."

"Yes, you did the same thing when we were expecting the triplets—one trimester barely complete and already you're in the sleeping stage! Imagine all I had to say to you when I came up to your old room, only to find you dead to the world." But Christian was laughing, and Leslie giggled in response. "Ernst even left a standing invitation to visit him at the Wennergren ranch the next time we're in Lilla Jordsö. It was his father's, passed down to him. I still remember Ernst musing he'd probably end up working there, and Pelle had always wanted to be a pilot. They both fulfilled those prophecies." His levity faded to a goodly extent, and he frowned at his plate. "That leaves Ivar...the most unreadable of all of them, and the one I had the most trouble with."

"Let him come to you, Christian, as Mr. Fågelsang and Mr. Wennergren did," Roarke advised. "Despite Mr. Claesson's outward appearance, he is the least certain of your reception of him, and you have more issues with him than with the others."

Christian considered it. "Do you think he'll approach me at all? As Pelle and I were parting ways last evening, he mentioned that when he first proposed this trip to Ernst and Ivar, he had no trouble getting Ernst to agree, but it was like closing a fish's eyes to talk Ivar into it. And while I don't recall Ivar backing down from a challenge, this is more than just a juvenile daredevil stunt. Ernst mentioned it too, that he thought he and Pelle should have just come here without Ivar."

"Often, the most belligerent façade hides the greatest fear," said Roarke. "Further, now that you've cleared the air with the other two men, Mr. Claesson may feel pressure to take his turn, to find out whether he too can restore what was lost so long ago."

Christian made a thoughtful noise. "I suppose I'll just have to wait and see. Thank you, Mr. Roarke. Since I never got the chance to update your Windows program last night, I'll do that this morning, so that if you and Leslie need to be away from the office, at least someone will be there for any emergency."

"Thank you, Christian, we both appreciate that. Leslie, I suggest you finish your breakfast. This may seem quite lowly to you, but the unfortunate fact is that the same stomach ailment that has been circulating among you and your friends has begun striking hotel personnel, and they are short enough housekeeping staff that I'm afraid I must ask you to fill in for the morning. You need only assist in remaking beds; that will allow the regular staff to do the required cleaning."

"Bedmaking I can handle," Leslie agreed. "If they need me for that, though, just how many people got taken out?"

"Seven," said Roarke, and both Christian and Leslie blinked.

"I'd offer to help as well, but I never did learn how to make a bed," Christian admitted with a sheepish grin. "Although if Kazuo finds himself short some cooking staff, I could lend my talents in that department." They laughed and made short work of their meal.

Leslie returned in time for lunch; Christian had just finished updating the computer, and they were about to go out to the veranda when Margareta came in, looking spooked. "Are you all right, Magga?" Christian asked.

"I...I think I'm beginning to see things," Margareta admitted low, as if ashamed. "I was hoping I'd be the exception, but I suppose I'm a true Enstad after all."

"Hallucinations?" Christian probed, and she nodded. He chuckled and patted her shoulder. "If it's nothing too frightening, and you recognized it for what it was, you might be all right. Have you told Rogan?"

"Not yet. I...wasn't thinking...I came here first." Margareta shuddered and huddled into a chair, squeezing her eyes closed. "We're so strong in so many other ways," she complained. "Why do we have to be prone to mental conjurings?"

"That's not something we can control, Magga," Christian said. "We can't be perfect, and I don't think you'd want to be perceived as such in any case. What did you see?"

"Peacocks," said Margareta.

Christian and Leslie looked at each other in surprise, and Leslie said, "We have peacocks all over this end of the island, Margareta."

"Not four-meter-tall ones with bright yellow feathers," Margareta retorted.

Leslie covered her grin with one hand, and Christian visibly repressed a smile before remarking, "If that's the worst thing you've seen, count yourself lucky. Silly sightings of imaginary animals are far preferable to whatever scared Briella when the serum's thornapple content began working on her. I do think you need to let Rogan know. Remember, he said he wants to be kept informed of anything at all, no matter how insignificant it may seem. I think you know the way to the B&B, don't you?"

Margareta peered up at him with an uncharacteristic look of pleading in her eyes and ventured, "Mr. Roarke wouldn't be able to give me something to stop the visions, would he?"

"He might be willing, but I don't think he'd be able," Leslie said in sympathy. "He's not the one in charge of the experiment anyway, Margareta. If you don't know how to get to the B&B on your own, I'll take you over there, but you do need to talk to Rogan."

"I'll go with you," Christian said. "I'm finished here anyhow, and Mariki can hold lunch for a bit, I'm sure. Let's go."

At the B&B, Rogan listened to Margareta's tale and smiled when he learned what the hallucination had involved. "Och, Your Highness, that's mild. Now if you start seein' things that seem to be life-threatenin', that's when you need to panic."

"I don't think you need treat this quite so lightly," Margareta said in her haughtiest, most regal tone of voice. "I was told you wanted to be informed of all aberrations."

Rogan chuckled. "I did; you were told right. It's more so I can keep track of what's happenin' and how many people are experiencin' these things. If you're only seein' giant yellow birds, you've nothin' to worry about. Also, it's not just mental things I'm lookin' to hear about. If you have physical problems, make sure you let me know and get medical attention right off. I realize it's only your first full day off amakarna; your system needs some adjustin', and some people do it better, or more quickly, than others. The Dutch lady let it be known that she endured twelve days of peculiar visions before her head settled down and she was back to normal."

"Twelve days," moaned Margareta. "I'll go insane by then."

"Magga," Christian muttered in mild warning, then stilled and peered at Rogan. "You know...I thought it odd when Briella began losing that confidence she always had. I don't recall her complaining of having seen things that no one else did, but the fact that she began to be frightened of almost everything around her was enough in and of itself to merit notice. Now look at Margareta here: normally she's extremely impatient with others' fears and worries—the more petty they are, the less patience she has. She does as she will and makes her own decisions, and once they're made, she sticks to them and carries them out without a word of complaint. Now she's whining, and never have I heard her do that. Do you think that may also be a side effect of the serum?"

Rogan nodded thoughtfully. "Aye, I'd say so. It seems to be a sort of personality change, if you will. Not the whole character, but one facet of it. While I wouldn't go so far as to say we should expect that, it may be normal for her at least, if she's physically enough like Queen Gabriella that we can expect similar reactions this time."

"That makes sense; they _are_ sisters," Christian mused with a nod. "I just wish we had some way to predict how long she'll be dealing with these odd little visions."

"If I ask Mr. Roarke for a cure for them," Margareta broke in plaintively, "will it interfere with the serum?"

"You're better off not askin'," Rogan said. "It's not that I like to say that, Your Highness, but that's the whole idea behind this test—to see that it works, without some other substance interferin' with its effects. You should keep in mind also that uncle was blazin' as much a trail as Marina and I were when we began developin' the cure, and in view of that, I doubt he'd be willin' to administer anything that might alter the results."

Margareta acceded with a few reluctant nods, but she wasn't quite ready to give up. "I just might ask the doctor who's overseeing this test to give me something to render me unconscious throughout the fifteen-day waiting period," she said.

Christian hooted with mirth. "Truly? Lilla Jordsö's tough Princess Margareta, asking for the easy way out of something? You'd best be careful, Magga, or I'll have something to blackmail you with in the future. Giant yellow peacocks! When you start to see Ormsskägg's old-time sea monsters rearing their heads out of the ocean, come back and tell me; I'll want a look at those creatures myself." Margareta glared at him; he just grinned back.

"Who's Orm-shag?" Rogan asked, picking his way through the name.

Leslie giggled. "We'll tell you later. Come on, my love, I think we've accomplished all we can over here. Let's go, Margareta—maybe having some lunch will help."

"Was it my imagination," Christian asked as they hiked back to the main house via a back trail, "or was Rogan's brogue peeking out? I seem to recall this happens only when he's angry or nervous."

"Well, maybe a little," Leslie conceded thoughtfully. "But then again, this is a major event, and anybody'd be worried about the outcome. I don't see any reason to make too much of it. We're all hoping for the best."

After lunch Margareta opted to try to nap in the upstairs TV room at the main house; Christian pulled out his cell phone and made a call to his Boston manager, while Roarke and Leslie tried to catch up on paperwork. Leslie glanced at her husband from time to time as she matched up fantasy-acceptance letters to their envelopes, as she wrote out checks for bills, and as she began preparing the outgoing mail to take to the island post office. He seemed calm enough, carrying on business as usual, but she knew he must be wondering somewhere in the back of his brain whether Ivar Claesson was ever going to break the ice of four decades of estrangement.

By three o'clock Leslie had packed a canvas tote bag full of outgoing envelopes and was ready for the walk to the post office; Christian had started sketching out ideas for the first of the website-design projects he had culled out the previous day. There was still no sign of Ivar Claesson, and Leslie finally decided enough was enough. "I'm heading for the post office. Anyone want to come?"

Christian glanced up, smiled and nodded. "I need a break; I've been sitting too long. I wanted to stop at the bungalow and get Pelle's contact information in any case—we forgot to do that last evening."

Roarke handed Leslie a last pair of outgoing envelopes and said, "If you can be back here within one hour, Leslie, you may come with me to bring Miss Randolph's fantasy to its conclusion. You should have plenty of time."

"Okay," she agreed, and accompanied Christian out the door. They had enough time that they meandered along, talking about odds and ends, musing as to whether they should try to rush the trip to the post office so they could check on Karina and Tobias at home, how Margareta was doing—anything to keep their minds occupied. They dropped off the mail, wandered back to the main house, and paused at the fountain to look at each other.

"I know we've been trying, but I haven't been able to stop wondering about Ivar," Christian admitted at last, letting his gaze settle on the undulating water in the base. "It's fairly late, and I don't think I'll see him."

Leslie gave him a kiss. "Well, in that case, you could head for home and make a check on the kids. I'd go with you, but I've got to help Father with that fantasy. Don't worry, my love...as Meat Loaf famously sang once upon a time, two outta three ain't bad."

Christian laughed at the phony gangster voice she affected, and dug into his pocket for the key to their car. "You're probably right. I certainly wasn't expecting what did happen this weekend, after all, so perhaps I should simply be grateful for the progress that's been accomplished. I'll be back around four-thirty, my Rose."

"See you then," she said, raising her face for his kiss before he headed for the car. She watched him drive away before striking off toward the house.

"Wait, wait," called a voice then, and she stopped, astonished when the handsome middle-aged blond man jogged into sight from the trees beyond the fountain. "Your Highness, I'd like to talk to you."

Leslie stared at Ivar Claesson, gauging him. He wasn't out of breath at all, and he certainly hadn't been dressed for jogging. In fact, he looked as if he were ready to fly back to Lilla Jordsö at any moment, clad as he was in jeans, heavy boots and a pullover sweater. She shouldered the empty tote bag and remarked, "You just missed Christian."

"Did I?" Claesson said, glancing with minimal interest down the lane in the direction Christian had driven. "Hmm, too bad."

"On purpose," she said then.

"Yes, on purpose," Claesson agreed, unperturbed. "I didn't want to talk to him. I had no intention of even coming here, but Fågelsang wouldn't let up on me, so I gave up just to keep him quiet. But he can't force me to make amends."

"Then why would you want to talk to me?" Leslie asked.

"So you can give His Highness a message." Claesson settled his stance and studied her for a long moment, taking her in from head to toe before shaking his head a little. "After that looker King Arnulf married Christian to way back when, it's hard to believe he'd settle for an ordinary-looking sort like you. Oh, not that you're bad-looking—it's only that you don't have the looks of the women who tend to run in the elevated circles the prince grew up in. I bet you're totally uncomfortable in his world, aren't you? You think you can hide it, but it's obvious to everyone. You don't come across as very royal, especially when you have to appear on television with him. You let your nervousness show. You seem to think that's going to endear you to our people."

By now Leslie had folded her arms over her chest and was staring icily at him. "If you would kindly get to the point," she prodded in her wintriest tone.

Claesson grinned at that. "Trying to keep your composure even now," he said. "I can see right through you, you know..." Leslie turned and trotted up the porch steps, heading for the door, and he called, "Oh, all right. Just tell His Highness that I never really wanted his friendship anyway, not even when we were children. It's not as if it ever did me any good. Fågelsang and that pansy Wennergren might have a different mind, but I came here just to be able to tell people I've been to the world's most popular resort."

Leslie stared at him, unsure as to whether Claesson was still bluffing or if he really meant what he said. Finally she shrugged. "Have a nice trip home," she said blandly and retreated into the house.

"Are you all right?" Roarke asked her when she slammed the inner door.

"Good, I can fume now," Leslie muttered, slinging the tote bag into a chair and collapsing into its twin. "That Ivar Claesson...Christian's better off without a friend like that." She told Roarke what had just happened outside.

Roarke listened with great amusement; when she finished, he began to chuckle. "My dear Leslie, don't tell me that after all these years, you don't know bluster when you see it," he said, shaking his head.

"All I saw was a pigheaded twit," Leslie retorted. "You're not actually going to tell Christian about what just happened, are you?"

"Mr. Claesson is putting up quite a stubborn front," Roarke observed as if she hadn't asked the question, leaning back in his chair and regarding her with a smile. "But he won't be able to leave here without confronting Christian one-on-one. In fact, Christian should be returning any moment now, since he left something behind..."

A car door slammed outside and Leslie shot to her feet. "Oh, great. If Claesson's still out there, maybe I should get outside before something awful happens." She darted out the door, and Roarke let her go, chuckling to himself. Lindsey Randolph's fantasy had run into a slight snag and he would have to wait to retrieve her anyway; he might as well let Leslie go.


	7. Chapter 7

§ § § - November 16, 2008

"You've got a real jellyfish for a wife, Enstad," called a voice as Christian opened the car door. He'd accidentally left his phone behind, and since he was expecting a return call from his Boston office, he'd had to turn around and come back for it. But the last thing he'd expected once he got there was Ivar Claesson's familiar taunt, which seemed no different from the one he remembered from forty years ago, for all that his voice had deepened from a boy's to a man's.

Christian stepped out of the car, his temper already on simmer: he had no tolerance for people who attacked Leslie, particularly if it was only for spite. "Say that again?" he invited in a deceptively friendly voice, eyeing Claesson loitering at the fountain.

"Your wife's a jellyfish," Claesson repeated and smirked. "Not to mention one of the last women on earth I'd think a prince would be interested in. She puts up a pretty good front, but there's no way she could ever be the sort of poised and polished princess you should've gone for, not like your sister-in-law and your brother-in-law. And with all the beauties in Lilla Jordsö, you chose that one?"

Christian shoved the car door hard enough that the bang of its closure echoed off the side of the house. "You have the same big mouth you always had, Claesson," he remarked, still in that calm voice. "And there's no doubt left now that you're a lawyer, since you're bandying pointless words, the way the most ineffectual lawyers do."

"Low blow, Enstad," Claesson said, sauntering in Christian's direction; the prince rounded the front of the car at leisure and waited for him there. "Not very good, a really cheap shot actually, but score one for you anyway."

"Make your point," Christian commanded with the precise enunciation born of loss of patience. "You seem to be good at wasting time too; I guess you get paid by the minute."

"Fågelsang mentioned your father thought you were gay," Claesson commented then, his smirk widening. "Is that why it took you so long to settle on one woman? Had to do it for appearances, but only when you had no choice anymore?"

Christian was never aware of making a conscious decision: it just happened. His fist flashed out, and he connected with a satisfying crack, knocking Ivar Claesson back three or four steps before the other man lost his balance and toppled over. Surprised at the success of his reaction, he stared down at the astonished Claesson, then relaxed and let out a laugh, shaking out his hand. "I always wanted to do that," he remarked conversationally.

Claesson muttered a few choice curses in _jordiska_ from where he lay, gingerly fingering his chin and wincing. "Not much of a punch," he managed, before turning his head aside and spitting out a spray of blood.

"It was enough," said Christian easily, settling on the hood of the car and watching Claesson. "Yes, that felt really good. You make a decent stand-in."

Claesson squinted up at him in annoyed bewilderment. "For whom?"

"My father and my oldest brother," Christian replied. "Possibly more so Arnulf than my father, in the end." He shook his head, his smile fading. "Truly, Ivar, did no one ever teach you not to put stock in common rumors? You're a lawyer, but perhaps not such a good one; you must have slept through the class about libel and slander."

Ivar spat out some more blood; this time part of a tooth came with it. _"I ödets namn,_ Enstad, you broke my tooth," he realized, looking shocked.

"Sorry," Christian said lightly. "This is quite an interesting conversation. At least you have enough spine to use my name, even if it's only my surname. Now tell me again what you were saying about my wife? I suggest you be careful, though...I might think you were insulting her, and then who knows what would happen to you."

"You know, there _is_ this little thing called assault and battery," Claesson said, working his jaw in small, experimental motions. His speech was a little thick. "I can always bring you up on charges of that."

"Your word against mine," Christian replied with a careless shrug. "We had no witnesses, and I might add that I had sufficient cause. You're dodging again, Claesson. What were you saying about my wife?"

Claesson grunted as he pushed himself back to his feet. "Oh, the hell with that subject," he muttered. "Just wanted to get a rise out of you." His smirk was lopsided, ruining the effect he was trying to put across. "I guess it finally worked."

"Yes," Christian drawled lazily, "after you and Stenström spent two entire school years trying. I'm flattered...I didn't know my reactions were so important to you."

Claesson spat out more blood and glared at the prince, losing his cool at last. "You weren't even human!" he burst out. "Aside from the fact that royalty isn't totally human in any case—you really took a prize! I thought you must be some sort of robot; you never seemed to feel anything. Nobody ever got to you. You never lost your temper, you never got into fights...you almost never got into trouble. You had your nose in the air all the time, held yourself above everyone else. Couldn't be bothered to give a damn about people you called your friends. No emotions at all! You weren't normal!"

"Since when is royalty normal?" Christian inquired, a little frost forming on his words now. "Since when are we even human, according to detractors? So I was supposed to react as you wanted me to, just to prove I was only another human being, after all was said and done? What do you think you are, a puppeteer?"

"I never saw anything like it," Claesson said, staring at Christian as if hunting for a virus among cells. "You sailed your own ship. You swam against the current. You held in all your emotions, you looked at the rest of us as if we were plankton, you tuned us out when we goaded you—so completely it was as if you'd gone deaf. And you got away with it!"

"That really bothers you, doesn't it?" Christian observed with interest. "The prince already had all the advantages the rest of you could only dream about...why should he be allowed to have things easy? Why should he get the opportunity to do as he wanted with his life? You must have given yourself brain hemorrhages wondering why I was always so self-possessed, so calm and collected, so cool and remote. You and Stenström spent a lot of time ignoring me, which was fine with me, but I think you spent almost as much time trying to push me around. I wondered for ages if you thickheaded trolls would ever get the message and give up. But apparently there was something about trying to make the prince lose his temper." He eyed Claesson with disbelief. "It's hard to believe we were ever actually friends. It seems like some odd dream I had once."

"A nightmare," grunted Claesson with a poisonous look.

Christian grinned, which seemed to further incense Ivar. "Undoubtedly. I can't even remember what it was that made us stop talking to each other before we officially ended the friendship. It must have been something extremely stupid, if I can't recall it." He launched himself off the car hood and slowly began to circle Claesson, who edged around on the ball of one foot as he went, trying to keep Christian in sight. "So tell me something, as long as we're here. Why did you live to provoke me? What made it so important?"

Claesson kicked a rock in the lane and watched it bounce across the grass before vanishing into the trees. "Nobody's so easygoing that there's nothing that can bother him. I knew you had to have a sore spot someplace. I just wanted to see if you were a real human being under that royal veneer. I mean...it didn't take you long to start acting like a prince. We got along great early in _primaskolan."_ Christian paused to watch Ivar's face grow distant with memories. "You'd make fun of your brother, and you'd talk with us about the stupid things little boys talk about. You weren't above horseplay and taunts and crazy tricks like the fishtail prank and tying Inger Kollman's braids together and writing offensive phrases on the playground asphalt with chalk, like the rest of us. You were _fun._

"And then we hit about ten years old and you started taking on that damn royal mask of yours. I can't believe that back then I never thought you'd take advantage of your title, but wouldn't you know, you shoved me out of the way that day in O'Barra's class—and you did it with nothing but words. And that's when you stopped being my friend Christian and turned into a royal prince of the realm." This phrase came out in a sneering half-singsong. "You started changing. You grew up faster than we did, somehow. Not only that, you got too damn good-looking to be real, and girls started staring at you all the time, and you just sat there and let it all wash over you, like you were above it all. We had to capsize ships to get girls' attention, and all you had to do was sit there and smile, and none of them could take their eyes off you. And, damn you, nothing fazed you!" Claesson whipped around and shouted the words at Christian, who blinked once or twice but merely stared at him otherwise. "Why the hell is that? Why don't you let anything bother you?"

"Why does that _matter_ so much to you?" Christian demanded, honestly bewildered. "It's been a theme with the three of you, but with you it seems to have been an obsession. I don't understand why it was so important to you to find something that would rile me!"

"Oh, I'll tell you why," Claesson yelled. "Because you know what? It looked like you didn't care! Like you never gave a damn about anything! You looked too damned perfect, do you understand that? Too perfect to be real. There had to be flaws in you somewhere. Flaws make you human, and you never revealed any of yours, so I figured somebody had to make you do it...make other people see there was just another kid in there under the prince costume. You already had everything, and now there was this damn self-control that none of the rest of us could even hope to acquire. I really hated you for that, Enstad."

"If you hated me that much, you should have been happy enough to have been estranged from me once our friendship came to a crashing end." Christian began to orbit him again, aware that Claesson was turning slowly to keep up with him, but refusing to look at him. "If you truly hated me, you would have rejoiced in knowing I was going to a different school while the rest of you would be attending together. If you hated me, you probably cursed me to the moon and back when my father stuck me with Johanna, and you must have laughed your head off when it came out that the marriage was an arranged affair and she and I hated each other. If you spent all that time hating me, you must have had one hell of a laugh when my damned brother enforced that second arranged marriage. And I imagine you couldn't wait to come over here and gloat over the idea that my father thought I was gay and that that was the true reason behind the marriage to Johanna..."

He stopped then and glared at Claesson. "You know, it takes a truly shallow person to harbor that much schadenfreude. What it tells me is that for some reason, it mattered to you that you were involved with me somehow—it mattered so much that you couldn't leave me alone even after we were no longer friends. I don't understand you at all. I wanted friends as much as anyone else on earth; even a prince gets lonely. You say I had everything. Well, perhaps not as much as you think. But I'm sure that doesn't matter to you, because it would shatter those illusions of yours that you've been using all these years to justify your resentment of me. I learned early on not to let small, worthless, petty things bother me, because I had much bigger fish to fry. Fish you never knew about and didn't bother asking me about." He shook his head, suddenly weary. "Go back home, Claesson, will you? I know you didn't want to be here, so you may as well leave." He turned away and cleared the steps in a couple of long strides; it wasn't till he had nearly reached the door that he saw Leslie standing just in front of it, waiting.

"Hi, my love," she murmured.

He was still worked up enough that he was surprised to find he had to force himself to use English, after his long rant in _jordiska_. "Oh, Leslie...I didn't realize you were here."

"Do you feel better?" she asked softly.

Christian heaved a great sigh and drove his hands into his pockets, then cast her a rueful look. "Wait about an hour and ask me again. Come in with me, will you?" She smiled at that, and they slipped into the house, neither of them looking back.

Roarke watched them come inside. "Your phone has rung twice, Christian, so you might prefer to handle those calls while Leslie and I are attending to the Randolph fantasy. It may give you an opportunity to calm yourself as well." He offered a reassuring smile. "Make yourself comfortable. We should return within fifteen minutes."

"And when we get back, you can tell me all about those _jordiska_ idioms you were using," Leslie added with a grin. "I mean...they're all marine-related somehow. 'Sailing your own ship'. 'Swimming against the current'. Capsizing ships as a measure of effort? Looking at people like they were plankton? Obviously, in Lilla Jordsö's earliest history, the people sustained themselves far more through the sea than through agriculture."

Christian burst into laughter. "Now you've given me something interesting to mull over," he said, gathering her close and hugging her. "All right, my Rose, I promise to give you English equivalents when you return. Go fetch your other guest." She hugged him, grinning, and went to join her father. Even Roarke was smiling as he and Leslie left Christian alone in the study.

§ § §

They emerged into silent darkness. Leslie, already a little nervous, clutched Roarke's arm, as much for reassurance as to keep track of him in the lightless void; Roarke moved ahead slowly, his shoes making barely any sound on the floor. Leslie had to step very lightly to remain as quiet.

A door some ten feet from where they stood opened, revealing a weary-looking figure, and Roarke stopped where he was; Leslie immediately followed his lead. As the figure emerged onto the landing in front of them, Leslie realized it was none other than Czar Nicholas, carrying his son Alexey, who looked as if a mere touch would break every bone in his body. Roarke nudged her farther back into the shadows, and they both waited, Roarke inhumanly quiet and Leslie barely daring to breathe. A small parade followed the czar out of the room: the stern-looking Alexandra, leaning on the arm of one of the daughters; three more girls, the smallest of whom Leslie recognized as Anastasia, the tallest and most regal-looking as Tatiana. Five more people filed out in their wake; the very last one was Lindsey Randolph, her face drawn and her eyes puffy. She lagged behind by five or six steps, her expression increasingly fearful. _She knows where they're going,_ Leslie realized, _and she's waiting for us to rescue her._ Roarke caught her eye and nodded once; Leslie nodded back, then leaned out onto the landing with a finger over her lips and signaled at Lindsey, who had to stifle a startled gasp. Then abject relief swamped her and she grabbed Leslie's hand, letting the older woman pull her quietly across the landing and into the deepest shadow where she and Roarke remained, watching the forlorn parade descending the stairs on their final journey.

The last of them vanished around the stairwell wall, and Lindsey turned glistening eyes on them. Roarke nodded again and said softly, "Your fantasy ends here."

Lindsey threw a last desperate look down the empty stairs before Leslie ushered her aside, into the time passage, leading the way back with Roarke bringing up the rear. They all squinted in the little room at the other end, even Roarke, though only for a second or two before opening the door and letting Leslie and Lindsey out ahead of him.

The moment she recognized the study, Lindsey burst into tears, startling Christian, who was in the middle of sketching. Crying helplessly, Lindsey wilted against Roarke, while Leslie looked on somberly, biting her lip.

"You knew you could not change what happened," Roarke said after a few minutes, his voice gentle. Christian relaxed against the back of the loveseat, as if he had remembered the fantasy Lindsey had come here for, and watched with sympathy.

"I know," Lindsey sobbed. "But I wanted to...oh god, you don't know how much I wanted to leap down the stairs and grab Tatiana's arm, or Maria's, or Anastasia's...or take Alexey out of his father's arms...and br-bring them back with me." Her words dissolved into her tears, and Roarke held her in silence, patting her shoulder.

It took her several minutes to regain some control; by then Leslie had gone after some tea, and she poured for Roarke and Lindsey while Christian set aside his sketches to lend an ear. Leslie sat beside him, and after Lindsey had spent some ten minutes nursing her tea and helping herself to a second cup, she focused on Christian and Leslie at last, blinking.

"I didn't witness the bloodbath," Lindsey said, as if someone had asked about it. "But I knew what was coming. I thought for a few minutes that I was going to end up being part of it." She drew in a long breath. "I got to know them just a little. Alexey broke my heart. Always smiling, even though he was in so much pain. They...they killed him within two weeks of his fourteenth birthday, did you know that? And his older sisters, all four of them, helping wash the floors yesterday, and talking in whispers about memories they had of helping with chores and even cutting firewood. Tatiana smiled at me, you know. Made me feel as if...as if we could've been friends in another life."

"They were all innocents," Christian said with a slow nod, his eyes losing focus. "I remember learning something of them during history classes in school, and more in Royal Comportment lessons. It was in the days when people still thought there was a chance that Anastasia had survived the massacre, and one of my teachers completely bought the story of Anna Anderson." He smiled wryly and met Lindsey's gaze. "It made me suspicious, of course, but I knew better than to offer a dissenting opinion."

"Your country probably would've offered asylum," Lindsey said with a watery return smile. "Your ancestors were famous for it. Who was on the throne when this happened?"

Christian had to think back for a moment. "Oh yes...my great-great-grandfather Carl, the fourth king by that name. It was only a couple of years before he died. He did put forth an offer to take in the Romanovs, but his wasn't the only bid for their asylum. There were stronger claims from several other countries. England should have, but didn't; Denmark did, and it would have made sense in either case, since they were related to the Romanovs. Of course, the Bolsheviks played games with them all. Carl IV tried at least three times, as we were taught, to make arrangements for the Romanovs to spend their exile in our country, and evidently when it was found that the family had been murdered, he deeply regretted his failure to press harder. But, considered in retrospect, nothing would have done any good; the family would still have been murdered."

Lindsey nodded, her eyes filling with tears again. "Well...now that I know what they really went through, now that I've met them as real, live human beings...I'm going to use my next vacation time to go to Ekaterinburg and pay homage to them...there's a tourist industry there now, places to see that were associated with them..." She swallowed some more tea, as if aware and embarrassed that her speech had begun to get choppy. She turned to Roarke then and said, "I know you might think it was more than I could take, but I'm not sorry I did this, in spite of everything. Thank you for granting my fantasy, Mr. Roarke."

"I am terribly sorry it came to such a tragic end, Miss Randolph, but if you feel it was worth the time and the price, then I can only say that I am very relieved. If there is anything you need tonight and in the morning before you leave, please say so."

Lindsey put down her empty teacup and arose. "I will, but I think I'll be all right. Thanks again...and thank you too, Mr. and Mrs. Enstad. Good night."

Roarke and the Enstads murmured farewells after her; for a moment after she left, the silence seemed heavy. Then Christian slipped an arm around Leslie. "After what she must have seen, my own troubles this weekend seem paltry."

"How did it go with Mr. Claesson?" Roarke asked.

Christian met his gaze and grinned a little sheepishly. "It seems that he spent all his time trying to goad me, just to see if I was truly human. In the end, he got what he wanted; he pushed so hard—especially after what I'd heard from Ernst and Pelle earlier—that he broke through and got his rise out of me, and I punched him."

"Did a pretty good job of it too," Leslie added, her eyes dancing.

Christian cranked his head around to stare at her. "You saw it?"

"Yup. I thought I was going to faint. I mean, I know how many times you used to fantasize about punching out Arnulf, but I figured it was just that unexpressed frustration. When you gave Ivar that right uppercut, I just about fell over. I saw most of your conversation out there. That's how I knew to collect all those idioms in _jordiska."_ They all laughed, and she added, "And you promised to translate them, too."

"You're right, my Rose, about our earliest sustenance coming mostly from the sea," Christian said, chuckling. "So as our language developed, many of our idioms did as well. 'Sailing your own ship' is to do your own thing regardless of what's popular or accepted—a direct analogue of 'marching to your own drummer' in English. 'Swimming against the current' is similar, and I suppose in English it would be the same, but it refers to a somewhat different situation in _jordiska_—to buck trends, to stand against pop-culture fads specifically, rather than the general sense that's referred to in 'sailing your own ship'." Leslie nodded, fascinated; Roarke, too, was listening with interest. "To look at someone as if he were plankton carries the same sense of unworthiness of that person as you say about regarding someone as you would the dirt under your feet; and capsizing ships, in reference to effort, means that you have to go to superhuman lengths to accomplish or achieve something."

"I get it...I might have to start keeping a notebook or something so the next time I have to speak in public in _jordiska_, I can sound a little less like a totally ignorant foreigner," Leslie said, and Christian laughed and squeezed her, just as there came a knock on the door. "Wonder who that could be?"

"Yes?" Roarke called, and the door eased open to reveal Pelle Fågelsang and Ernst Wennergren. They seemed relieved to see that Christian was there, and both greeted him in _jordiska_ as they came into the study.

_"Hallå då," _Christian responded with a smile. "I meant to come over and get your e-mail, Pelle, but I was distracted."

"So we've heard," Pelle said with a quizzical grin at him. "Ivar told us everything."

"Everything?" Christian said, quirking that brow, and Pelle grinned, nodding.

Ernst had started to shake his head a little, his face full of admiration. "I have to tell you, Christian, I'm envious. I can't count all the times I wanted to do that very thing to Ivar myself. I wish I'd been there to see you do it."

"He needed it," Pelle remarked with an apologetic glance at Leslie and then at Roarke. "I don't want to suggest that it was the best solution to what was between Ivar and Christian, but Ivar understands only a certain language, as I think you say in English. He wants to get reactions and will take any method to do it. And it was impossible for him to get them from Christian, so it made him a little crazy."

"Well, he got one today, after all these years," Christian said. "I know I didn't tell you to keep it secret, but when Ivar mentioned you told him about my father's misconception that I was gay, I lost my cool at last. He said he kept trying all that time because he wanted to see if I was truly human, under all the royal conditioning."

"Well, yes, of course he did," said Pelle. "So did I. I think even Ernst did too."

"Why did it matter so much?" Christian asked yet again.

"It made you look cold, Christian," Ernst said apologetically. "I see it a bit differently now, after we had our talk. I see your true reasons. But back then, we didn't know. To us, it seemed that you didn't care if you were our friend or not."

"Ivar said that," Christian mused, his voice softening and his gaze dropping. "We said so much that it was almost buried in the mutual diatribe. But yes, I remember it now; he said it looked as if I didn't care." He met Pelle's gaze, then Ernst's. "But I _did_ care. It's only that we weren't supposed to show it, being males. And in any case, I was going to another school and couldn't change that. Still...looking back, I suppose I can see it from your point of view now. After all these years, it seems I should have something better to offer than a mere 'I'm sorry', but...I _am_ sorry, for what it's worth."

"The point is that you've regained your friendships," Leslie said then, snaring the attention of all three of them. "You've had a chance to clear the air and explain yourselves to each other, and you can move ahead now." They nodded.

"I'm sorry as well," Pelle said, clearing his throat. "Sorry I allowed Ivar and Kalle to manipulate me like that, into being such a jackass to you."

"Maybe we can stop feeling like such fools now and simply be friends," Ernst suggested, and they all laughed.

"So where's Ivar, then?" Christian wondered. "Did he leave after all?"

"He hadn't gone when we left to come here," Ernst said. "But he might still do it. He hasn't truly changed so much, Christian. Do you really want to resume that friendship?"

Christian regarded Ernst for a moment, then shrugged and smiled. "Someday I might, yes, if he ever matures enough to rethink his position," he said.

"Perhaps that will happen one day," Roarke said. "You can never truly know what the future will hold in store. In the meantime, simply be grateful that you've reestablished ties, and forgive each other—and yourselves—all past transgressions. Your friendship will be that much the stronger for it."

They nodded; then Christian inquired, "How long did you plan to stay, then? Just for this weekend? Because if you leave on tomorrow's plane, you'll miss out on half the attractions on this island, and I thought you wanted to see my home, Ernst."

"I did at that," Ernst agreed with a grin, while Pelle stared at him in amazement. "I can stay through this coming week; Aina's old enough and competent enough to handle the ranch on her own for that long. When it's convenient for you and your family, I'll be more than glad to see it."

"We'll let you know," said Christian, then grinned at Pelle. "That goes for you too, in case you were wondering."

"It did cross my mind," Pelle said, then grinned back. "Thank you, Christian."

§ § §

Margareta joined Roarke, Christian and Leslie for supper on the veranda that evening with a drowsy aura still clinging to her. "Where were you all afternoon?" her uncle wanted to know. "Did you really sleep the day away?"

"It was my hope to do that," Margareta admitted, "but when I woke up fifteen minutes ago I realized I'd have to eat sometime. I'm hungry, in any case."

"Are you hallucinating?" Roarke asked sympathetically.

"Only silly things so far, but I hate it," the princess said plaintively. "I hate this helpless feeling, too. Uncle Christian told Mr. Callaghan that my unusual whining might also be a side effect of this serum. If this continues for the full fifteen days, Mr. Roarke, you'll all wish to see me thrown overboard in a hurricane by the end."

They all laughed. "Wait and see," Leslie advised her. "Don't forget, there's plenty of help here if you need it. Nobody'll let anything happen to you." She fielded Margareta's skeptical look and exchanged a glance with Christian. Secretly she had to admit that she'd be immensely relieved once the next two weeks had elapsed!

* * *

><p><em>So what's going to happen when Rogan's serum finally has the chance to prove itself? Wait and see!<em>


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